


The Witch Doctor on Main Street

by Brillador



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/M, Gen, Herbalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:58:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8194733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brillador/pseuds/Brillador
Summary: Mr. Gold runs Storybrooke's herbal shop, selling remedies that some people consider miraculous, although he's earned suspicion from florist Moe French and distrust from professionals like Dr. Whale. When Moe's daughter Belle moves into town, she gets caught up in the rivalries and mysteries surrounding Gold's line of work. Little do any of them know the true power of Gold's "magic touch." But a warlock making herbal medicine may not be the only extraordinary secret hiding in Storybrooke.





	1. Magic and Machines

“Papa? I think a lady’s car broke down out front.”

Gold was already heading through the doorway that separated the shop’s back room from the show floor. A little warning tingle in the far corner of his brain had already hinted that something had happened—or that something was about to happen. Sometimes these tingles occurred moments before some small crisis. Occasionally there was more time in between, as though the universe was granting him a way to prepare, if not avoid a problem.

A person’s car breaking down ranked on the low end of the crisis meter, so Gold was in no great hurry to meet that unlucky woman’s personal disaster. His son, Neal, had a different attitude. The teenage boy was lingering close to the door, his fluffy hair almost shadowing his eyes, yet somehow he could clearly see through the blinds of the shop windows. They’d just closed up for the night. Well, Mr. Gold had just closed up Gold’s Herbs and Crafts. An odd combination, or so he’d thought when his aunts first showed him the shop as a boy. Neal thought the same when he had been old enough to understand how unrelated the two areas appeared to be. Now, in Gold’s view, the store would’ve felt incomplete without one or the other. His aunts had impressed on him the therapeutic benefits of honing a skill like knitting, sewing, or even spinning. But, from the looks of it, the woman he could now see looking under the hood of her car had no interest in either yarn or herbal remedies, unless she thought a salve and a scarf might fix her car.

“You gonna help her?” Neal hesitated on the first word, just enough to betray his trepidation, but also to suggest what answer he hoped for.

Gold knew better than to take the bait too quickly. “What makes you think I can? I’m not a mechanic.”

“Oh, come on.” The boy’s far-too-knowing gaze locked on him. “You’re telling me that cars are beyond your—you know, scope?”

Gold pursed his lips. “Machines are tricky.”

“That’s the same excuse you used for not fixing my iPad.”

“If it hadn’t worked, you would’ve hated me for twice as long.”

“Well, this isn’t an iPad. This is a person’s means of getting around.” Neal peered through the blinds again, his concern now written in every furrow of his brow. “Please, Papa.”

A cynical voice in Gold’s mind wondered if his son was so worried because the lady, her head now up and unobstructed by the car hood, was quite pretty. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face but otherwise hung down. Her features had a China-doll quality, except her eyes weren’t big and round. Rather slender and delicate. They flitted around as she was thinking, no doubt weighing her situation. Her hand was going for a pocket in her short jacket—her cellphone. Did she know what number to call? Storybrooke was a long way from anywhere; AAA would take a couple hours. Besides, she wasn’t stuck on a barren road. She could walk the few blocks to Granny’s Inn and look up the local mechanic tomorrow morning. As though wondering about all these possibilities, the young lady held her phone but didn’t dial anything. She stared at it, biting her lip at the same time.

A loud sigh was the only warning before Neal booked it out the door, the bell jingling frantically behind him. Gold called out. Too late. Hands in his pockets against the cool evening air, Neal strode over to the car. Well, the boy was old enough to approach other people by his own volition. He didn’t need his father hovering over him and keeping him safe from petite ladies with broken cars—

Gold walked out not five seconds later.

Neal glanced over his shoulder. A pleased grin overtook his face. Gold flared his nostrils at him.

“Ma’am!” Neal called.

The woman jumped a little. Her phone tumbled out of her hand. It burst into a couple of pieces on the sidewalk. She cursed.

“I-I’m sorry!” Neal rushed forward to rescue her phone.

Mr. Gold limped as quickly as he could with his cane. “We didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s fine!” The woman was kneeling with Neal, collecting what Gold guessed was the phone’s battery pack. Even in the twilight, he spotted a white square not bigger than a penny dangerously close to her shoe. Not only near her shoe, but on the edge of the curb. The SIM card. If her foot moved an inch over, she’d either step on it or knock it into the gutter. Not a life-threatening scenario. Nothing warranting dramatic measures. He could’ve just pointed and called her attention to it, for goodness’ sake. So the fact he felt an itch in his hand, a hair-trigger instinct, was completely uncalled for.

Yet after a few moments of resistance, his fingers flicked once, twice—the plastic chip vanished from the spot. Gold came over to the crouched duo and joined them. He held out the SIM card.

“Oh, thank you!” The woman’s smile pushed up her apple cheeks and scrunched her bright blue eyes. The charming expression teased out a quick half-smile from Gold.

“Is it working?” Neal asked once the phone was put back together.

The phone’s back clicked reassuringly into place. She pressed the power button. The screen blinked to life and sang its generic techno tune. “Looks like it,” she said, sighing like she’d pulled into a gas station just as the needle for the fuel gauge hit E.

Gold stood and spared her sedan a cursory inspection. “If only automobiles were so easy to fix.”

The woman sighed again, this time much less relieved. “Tell me about it. At least it got me here.”

Ah. So Storybrooke was her destination, after all. She could easily leave her car—except it was resting right next to a fire hydrant.

The woman was aware of this. She looked behind her at the hydrant, then at the two men who’d come to her rescue. “Could you tell me where the closest car mechanic is?”

Gold easily directed her, but it was on the other side of town, the more industrial quarter near the harbor. At this hour it was closed. If she was hoping to push her expired vehicle there, it’d take hours, assuming she could make it budge.

“We could help you get it to Granny’s,” Neal said, “then Mitchell can pick it up with his tow truck tomorrow.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.” Her guilt sounded inexplicably genuine.

Neal looked at his father. There it was—the look. Part pleading, part demanding. Full of innocent yet tyrannical goodwill. They had to help. He had to help. He should try, at least. Wasn’t that the point of his shop?

 _It always comes with a price_. That’s why he ran a business, not a free clinic.

Gold rubbed the handle of his cane. The motion helped him mull over the dilemma.

The woman filled the awkward silence. “What is Granny’s? A motel?”

“A B&B, really,” Neal explained. “It’s attached to her diner. It’s pretty much the only place to stay in town. But it’s nice. Uh . . .” He peeked back at Gold again. Any day now, his face said.

If only his boy could understand. If only Gold fully understood himself. Or if only he wasn’t so wary, so fearful of how even a small altruistic gesture could backfire.

“Well, I’m actually looking for the flower shop,” the woman said. “Game of Thorns.”

“That’s Moe French’s shop,” Gold said, surprised to hear that bitter man coming up in the conversation.

“He’s my father.” The woman smiled almost apologetically.

Gold’s eyebrows jumped up. “I didn’t realize French had a daughter.”

The comment didn’t faze her. She reached out a hand to shake. “I’m Belle.”

Neal didn’t allow a moment of discomfort. He accepted her handshake and introduced himself, then nodded to the shop his father owned.

An idea took shape in Gold’s mind. If she was Moe’s daughter, he could think of a couple of ways a debt could be collected. As a florist, Moe French had access to certain plant products that, for Gold, were easier (and cheaper) to get by paying the Game of Thorns a business visit. But Mr. French had gotten it into his head that Gold used his plants for unsavory purposes. The man once all but used ‘witchcraft’ to describe the ‘unnatural’ effects of Gold’s remedies. Over the years, Moe had resisted conducting any kind of business with Gold; Gold in turn had made a sadistic game out of it, just to rile up a man who, in a different time, might’ve demanded that the town elders hang him for cavorting with devils.

A few hesitant steps later, Gold was standing in front of Belle’s car. “Any idea what’s wrong?”

“I wish.” Belle’s despondency crept back into her otherwise friendly mood. “That poor old beast seemed to be on its last leg the last few hours. It's not even mine. I rented it at a ridiculously low rate. Now I’m kicking myself.”

“You could probably download a free e-book on auto repair,” Neal pointed out. “Of course, you have to search around to find a reliable one, but it’s not too hard. Do you have a Kindle or tablet?” Now he seemed interested in holding Belle’s attention. He sidled up and gestured with his hands as he spoke—the sight made Gold smile. Neal had probably seen his father use that recurring technique whenever Gold expounded on the benefits of this lotion or that dietary supplement to a client.

“Oh,” said Belle, surprised and intrigued. “Well, I guess if it’s free, there’s nothing stopping me, unless it only works on tablets. I just have my laptop.”

Neal explained that a laptop was just fine, if not as easy to use on the fly. He kept talking, spinning the conversation into an anecdote about his unfortunate iPad. Even with his companion enrapt by the boy’s story, Gold kept his hand motion as subtle as possible. First, he felt for anything out of place, much like he would inspecting newly woven cloth for any snags. There. A blockage, perhaps from buildup of some kind. Gold was about as informed on car maintenance as Belle, but he could feel some part of the engine being obstructed. Maybe clearing it would only fix the problem for a short time. It was just enough to get Belle where she needed to go, and to approach Moe French for an equally reasonable favor.

With a steady pull, his magic loosened the blockage. Once it was free, he sent it away with a flick of his fingers.

His gaze turned up to Neal. Neal’s met it, then jumped back to Belle.

“. . . so I just decided to get a new iPad for myself. Now I’m supposed to be the ‘techie’ everyone at school goes to for help with their tablets or phones or whatever. So, if you ever need advice or anything, I’m the one to ask.”

“That’s really sweet of you!” Belle was a beacon of cheer and genuine warmth while the evening continued to sap light from the world. “If I have any concerns, I’ll stop by. Do you help your father with the shop?”

“Only if I’m grounded.” Neal’s mouth pulled up in a half-grin. “Or I’m tight for money.”

Before Gold could throw out a sardonic comment about how much Neal used to love learning about his father’s trade for free, before it was no longer ‘cool’, he was met by those lovely yet sharp-edged eyes. Belle looked ready to mentally dissect him. Not out of dislike, but tenacious curiosity. “I take it you’re someone who wants his son to understand the value of hard work.”

That he couldn’t tell how much praise or criticism loomed behind that remark piqued Gold. Maybe that was her intention. He should’ve known that beneath that sweet, disarming face lurked an impish character.

“It’s a valuable lesson to learn at any age, Miss French. Lucky for me, my son, while not quite grown up, has a stronger sense of responsibility than many people I’ve met well above his age.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” The small challenge behind Belle’s stance backed down, though she did add when facing Neal again, “But you know what they say about all work and no play.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “You turn into the guy from The Shining?”

Belle giggled. “Oh, I like you.”

“What? You mean my technical expertise didn’t already win you over?”

As Neal and Belle shared some more giggles and smiles, a strange sensation passed over Gold. It wasn’t exactly foreboding. It was a shift, like a change in the wind, and at the same time a kind of déjà vu. He’d never met Belle before, he was sure. Moe had moved to Storybrooke only five or six years ago. If Belle had ever visited, Gold had no memory of it. But the moment itself, the sight of his son and this charming stranger, a woman probably only ten years Neal’s senior, niggled at Gold like a forgotten dream.

 _A touch of clairvoyance_ , his aunts had said. One of his gifts. Not strong enough to produce visions, though. It was like the bell that hung on the door to his shop; when it rang, he couldn’t know who was coming in, but he knew the door had definitely been opened, and that likely meant someone had entered his shop for business. These phantom stirrings told him nothing specific—only that a significant course of events was about to unfold.

Gold cleared his throat. Belle and Neal automatically regarded him.

“I’m afraid my own technical expertise is severely limited, but perhaps you should try starting the engine again.”

Belle tilted her head for a look at the exposed engine. “Did you do something?”

“I might’ve rattled something loose.” He swept his hand to the car. “If not, we’ll have to leave it where it is.”

He doubted that Sheriff Humbert would make much of a broken-down car loitering close to a fire hydrant. The man liked to keep order, but he was a reasonable law enforcer, even perhaps a little tender-hearted to down-on-their-luck ladies who didn’t mean any harm.

To Belle’s amazement, though, she wouldn’t even have to concern herself with Graham Humbert’s reaction to the placement of her car. The engine sputtered to life on the first turn of the key. She balked and laughed and all but jumped out of her seat. “I don’t know what you did, but you’re a lifesaver!”

Gold still recommended calling the mechanic tomorrow, then told her the most direct route to the flower shop from here. Belle nodded, her smile so wide it must have hurt. Gold closed the hood. There was no time to waste. She did spare a moment to lower her window and give as generous a goodbye as she could while her ‘old beast’ lurched into the street. Grumbling much like a woken bear, it rolled down the main avenue and took the next right, disappearing from sight.

“Well?” Neal said.

Gold frowned. “Well what?”

“Was that so bad?”

The older man’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. His nostrils twitched.

Neal snickered. “Wow. It’s killing you to admit that you did something nice for someone without asking for anything. Well, one step at a time.”

“You don’t think she’s going to start gossiping about how I fixed her car with magic?” The sarcasm that Gold relished dishing out even to his son (sometimes especially to his son) belied sincere paranoia, restrained as it was.

“She seemed much more excited about getting to her pop’s place.” A thoughtful look crossed Neal’s face. “But maybe she’ll be back for you to fix something else.”

“Unless it’s for a physical ailment, I highly doubt that.”

“Why? You made a decent first impression.”

Gold ruffled Neal’s hair and immediately earned a rebuking scowl. “You have such a way with words, my boy.”

“Yeah? Where did I learn it from, I wonder?”

Gold hooked his arm around the boy’s shoulders. They returned to the shop. He locked the front entrance behind them. They left by the back door, finished locking up and got into their Cadillac. Neal was buckled up before Gold could get himself fully situated in the driver’s seat. Neal seized the moment to say, “Just so you know, I’m glad you did that for her. I know you want to be careful, and that you don’t always know the consequences. So, thanks for doing that.”

Now Gold was seated and looking at his son with a small smile that tried to keep steady as he patted Neal’s shoulder. His son ought to have had a father who would hand out magical favors like candy on Halloween. That’s what good wizards and witches and fairy godmothers in old stories did, right? That’s how you knew they were good. But just as he was tempted to forget the anticipated visit to Moe French, dread tugged at his gut. Was it just cowardice, or a real warning? He should’ve recognized the difference by now.

“Perhaps the universe has a cosmic payment in store,” Gold said, hoping to leave this conversation on a comforting note without having to completely lie.

Neal rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I believe it goes, ‘Good deeds are their own reward.’”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t teach you that.”

“Then it’s a good thing you have me around.”

Gold chuckled as he turned on the car. “That we can agree on.”


	2. Friends and Foes with Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle reflects on her arrival to the States, and Gold visits Moe's shop to seek recompense for helping Belle.

If one bit of good had come out of this exhausting trip, it was that Storybrooke’s denizens were decent, helpful people. Such was Belle’s verdict once she could finally flop into bed for an overdue, peaceful rest.

It was hard to call her three-day stay in New York after her flight a respite. Even with the two-legged flight from Perth to Hong Kong to JFK Airport, Belle knew better than to waste the opportunity for a taste of the city that Americans, for some reason, called the Big Apple. Maybe that should’ve warned her it was forbidden fruit. Once you sampled it, you could feel trapped in its dizzying false paradise. The city that never sleeps, indeed. She’d enjoyed herself, no real regrets, but thanks to all the energy spent visiting several classic sights like Lady Liberty, Times Square, New York Public Library, Madison Square Garden, a few museums and far too many bookstores (she could’ve _lived_ in The Strand), the homestretch of her journey nearly knocked her out for good.

The six-hour bus ride left her cramped and groggy. The brief confusion at the car rental in Portland put her in an ill temper further aggravated by a coughing car engine and a few wrong turns through towns with a cozy, woodsy New England strangeness that easily disoriented her. Somehow she made it back to the road to Storybrooke, only for the recalcitrant engine to finally revolt. Prayers alone seemed to sustain it into town. Then they gave out. The cranky beast grumbled to a stop right in front of Mr. Gold’s Herbs and Crafts shop.

A couple of punches to the steering wheel did nothing but make her hands throb. A dark cloud enveloped Belle: all her doubts about this move, all the past decisions and what they left in their wake. Maybe she was just a lost soul, adrift on the currents of fate, doomed to watch every attempt at plotting a course backfire fantastically. It would never end. Never, ever, ever.

Neal Gold and his father came to the scene, their timing impeccable. She was ready to call them angels or fairy godfathers for just being nice. Then, without her knowing how, Mr. Gold started the car again with enough gusto to reach the flower shop. She thought it something out of a modern fairy tale once she had a quiet moment to think it over. An odd coincidence that she broke down a stone’s throw away from someone who looked as far removed from a car mechanic as the moon from the Earth, yet he managed it. Thank God for small miracles.

A knock landed on her bedroom door. Belle blinked away the day’s recollections. She considered feigning sleep to hold on to the simple blessing of a stranger’s help. Better than facing the messier feelings that would come from behind that door.

“Sweetheart? You awake?”

If she’d fall asleep first, she would’ve been dead to the world and her father’s voice, no matter how poorly he tried to soften it.

“Yes,” she called, the word sitting in the back of her throat like a taciturn bullfrog.

The door clicked and opened. Moe French’s bulky frame leaned inside. “Sure you don’t want a bite to eat?”

Her stomach considered it. The rest of her body refused to move. “I’ll get something if I’m hungry later, Dad. Just too tired now.”

Her father’s full jowls emphasized his sympathetic frown. “All right, darl. Get a good night’s sleep. Sleep tight.”

Just as he swung the door back to the jamb, Belle sucked in a breath and called, “Love you.”

The door paused. “Love you, too. See you in the morn.”

Light from the hall was sealed behind the shut door. Belle sighed and rolled over to face the wall. It could’ve been worse. Moe was just glad she’d made here in one piece. No hard words. No rebukes. She nearly congratulated him for his restraint. But it was the first night, one of however many it took. And what would it take? What was even “it”? The questions kept her awake for another half hour.

* * *

Gold held off his visit until after lunch. He could keep his own shop closed for an extra hour. Having slept on the events of last night, his hopes for eliciting some favor from Moe dimmed. Maybe bothering the old man would be enough payment. He still didn’t dismiss the objective outright—fate might smile kindly on him for once. Or he’d have a stroke of insight to exploit to his heart's content.

The flower boutique’s aroma hit him with an itchy perfume that could’ve sent a more sensitive nose into a sneezing fit. Moe French kept his shelves and fridges stocked with the usual specimens—roses, bluebells, tulips, orchids, sunflowers, daisies, chrysanthemums, poinsettias—but along one wall he had assembled a motely arrangement of products for the more adventurous plant-owner. Several cacti sat in stubborn, resilient thorniness. One box of packaged plant bulbs advertised that between 10 and 30 dollars you could grow your very own Venus flytrap. In one bouquet, there sprouted six birds of paradise, their angular orange heads apparently watching the showroom. Another bouquet held a bulk of white lilies and passiflora. The passiflora’s pistils and stamens reminded Gold of those K’Nex pieces Neal used to play with to make three-pronged and five-pronged spindle wheels. The squiggly extensions of the corona, which overlay the petals, looked too strange to be natural. Well, nature could be very bizarre, more than human beings could dream up.

If nothing else, Gold could persuade Moe to let him purchase any passion flowers the florist hadn’t yet committed to a bouquet. Just as he considered it, Gold’s eye jumped to a cluster of snake’s head fritillary. Their drooping purple heads with a scaly, checkered pattern resembled those in his own private garden—one of the few species he grew purely for aesthetic.

A sigh came clear across the room. It alerted Gold to Moe’s presence before a word was spoken.

“I got nothing for you, Gold.”

A half-smile slid into place. Mr. Gold straightened from his admiring pose of the flowers to face the store owner. “Oh, I beg to differ.”

“I mean I got nothing I’m gonna sell you, so don’t waste either of our time.” The bigger man looked a little pale, not quite as fit and fiery as on other days. Maybe this would work in Gold’s favor, even with Moe’s typical attitude.

“Visiting your establishment is never a waste of time,” Gold remarked. “A little window shopping never hurt anyone.”

Moe looked inclined to say something rude, going by the tight line of his mouth and the way he swallowed and grimaced—an almost sickened expression. For some reason, he merely thumped to the counter like an irritated elephant. “Don’t touch anything,” he groused after a minute.

“I have far too much respect for plants to touch them inappropriately.” Of course, that wasn’t Moe’s concern, and Gold relished the glare. The man must’ve been truly tired not to pick a fight.

A few tense minutes later, Gold made his move. As he inspected a pot of English violets (useful for treating cough, insomnia and dermatitis), he said, “I hope your daughter made it here safely.”

That sent some blood to Moe’s face. “What?!”

While he’d expected the reaction, Gold made sure to throw up his eyebrows and feign offense. “What? After the trouble with the car, I was a little concerned she might have another breakdown before reaching your place.”

Bearish hands curled. Moe’s white knucklebones pressed into the stretched skin. “What lies are you spewing now? You don’t know anything about my personal business!”

“I suppose having a daughter _was_ your personal business,” Gold remarked, “until her car expired near my shop.”

The angry flush fled from Moe’s cheeks. He turned around, away from Gold to the door at the back of the showroom. No doubt an instinct that he would want to repress in hindsight. The door led to the stairwell up to his apartment.

“So she is here.” Gold left the violets. He kept his distance from the counter but positioned himself fully before Moe, both hands on his cane. “Glad to know it all worked out.”

Moe blinked hard, already regretting the hasty expression of worry. “What happened? She didn’t tell me anything.”

Gold shrugged. “Nothing catastrophic. The engine had a blockage. I offered to look at it. I found the imminent problem and sent her on her way.”

Moe drew back his lips in a sneering snarl. Despite the flab surrounding that snarl, it was rather menacing. “So that’s it! You’re here because you think you can get a favor from me for helping Belle! Well, you can turn right around and leave because it’s not happening! You’ll get _nothing_ from me you—you—”

Gold twitched his head. “Yes?”

Moe bared his teeth. “You know _exactly_ what you are!”

“What’s all this shouting?”

A startled Moe whirled around and stepped aside, revealing Belle’s much smaller figure. She was dressed but looked drowsy, like she’d slept poorly. Her mussed hair was barely staying in its bun. She hadn’t anticipated company.

Her gaze alighted on Gold and grew a little brighter with her smile. “Oh. Morning, Mr. Gold.”

He nodded. “Afternoon, Miss French.”

“Oh. It is afternoon, isn’t it?” She yawned. “Sorry. Still getting used to the time change.”

“Oh? You must’ve come a long way.”

Belle’s fatigue couldn’t have been more obvious, but she smiled pleasantly. “Australia. But that was almost a week ago. I should be used to it by now.”

Gold couldn’t resist—not with Moe standing right there, although he would’ve offered anyway. “I might have a few extracts to help you sleep, or to help you stay up to adjust.”

“No,” Moe said before Belle could get a word in.

That didn’t stop her from getting a word in. “Huh? Why not?”

“He’s not a doctor.” Moe squinted at Gold. “Not a _real_ doctor.”

“It’s still nice to offer,” Belle pointed out.

“Nice has nothing to do with it! He’s trying to sell you his potions!”

Gold laughed—a low, throaty laugh laced with desert dryness.

Belle looked at her father with the appropriate degree of incredulity. “What are you talking about? He runs an herbal medicine shop. It’s not witchcraft, Dad.”

To Gold’s surprise and satisfaction, an angry note rose in Belle’s tone. Her father’s strong views about herbal medicine—or at least the way Gold practiced it—might soon become a source of embarrassment. The antagonistic atmosphere filling the room stirred her into a more wakeful state. She stepped around the corner to approach Mr. Gold. “I’m sorry, he didn’t—we didn’t mean any offense.”

“Belle, don’t—” Moe tried to interject.

“That’s quite all right,” Gold said. Oh, this was well worth the magic spent on her car. “Herbal medicine is an old art. Many people dismiss the old-fashioned way of doing things. I certainly wouldn’t press you to try anything you weren’t comfortable with.”

“Thank you—I’ll probably be all right. If not, I might pay you a visit.” Belle rubbed her eyes. “I’m not even sure what day it is. Perth is ahead by twelve hours.” She took a reviving breath and shook her head. Some loose hair fell in her face, which she hurriedly pushed behind her ear. “How’s Neal? Is he in school?”

Was that her clever way of checking if it was a weekday or the weekend, or was she making amiable small talk? “Yes to the second. He’s well as far as I can tell. Some teenagers have a knack for hiding how they truly feel. Either that, or they project their feelings constantly.”

“He was very sweet yesterday,” Belle said. “I wanted to tell you both again how much I appreciate your reaching out to help me.”

“It’s no trouble,” Gold said. He could feel Moe watching like a police-trained German Shepherd.

“So, this shop of yours—do you run it by yourself? Aside from Neal?”

“I do. I suppose I’m very mindful about my merchandise. I know best how to pitch and sell my products.” His head tilted thoughtfully. “Neal usually helps with the shop’s upkeep—dusting, sweeping, some cataloguing when I have a big shipment. But those tasks can encroach on his plans with friends. Maybe I will need to hire an employee in the future.”

Belle was still tired, so he didn’t take her next words too much to heart. That said, an eager glint touched her eyes. “If you just need someone part-time, I might apply.”

“Belle.” Moe almost choked on her name.

She shot Moe annoyed look. “What? Even full-time, the library job won’t be enough.” She returned to Gold. “I started in pre-med before switching to library sciences, if that helps at all.”

Gold winced, nearly winking. “Actually, you might find my line of work contrary to your formal education. It _does_ involve alternative medicine.”

“Well, I haven’t committed yet, but I’ll consider it.” Belle unfurled a cheeky smile, first at Gold, then her father. The expression sharpened as it lingered on Moe.

“I’ll keep you in mind. Neal will have another excuse to hang around the shop.”

“To tell me more about e-books and iPads, I’m sure.” Belle raised an eyebrow. “But he’d probably prefer hanging out with people his age.”

At some point over the course of the conversation, Gold’s smile had relaxed into a genuine attitude. Talking about his son had that effect, even during idle chatter. Belle seemed to like his boy. At least, she had the mind to bring him up.

“He can be surprisingly mature for his age when it suits him.”

Belle chuckled. “I was a little like that way back when. Not that I’m _old_ now, but . . . I should probably rest some more before I run my mouth off.”

“It was a pleasure to see you again,” Gold assured her.

“You, too,” she answered, her smile widening and lighting up her face more. Such an outflow of real friendliness, even in her fatigue, came as a small but notable shock to his system. Mr. Gold had lived in Storybrooke most of his life. He was used to the formal, business-focused interactions of his clients and the moments of hostility with the likes of Moe. Even when Mary Margaret and her family moved to town a month ago, she had shown pleasantness but no special interest in getting to know him. She’d been born and raised in this town before Regina Mills, her stepmother, apparently made her life too trying to stay. Now Mrs. Nolan, Mary Margaret might’ve had a faint memory of the mysterious herbal shop her parents warned her away from. Belle, a true newcomer despite her father’s residential status over the last five years, might bring a small change to his social interactions.

Belle nodded and, with a yawn, lumbered out the back of the showroom. She disappeared behind Moe, who stepped between Gold and his view of the doorway to the apartment staircase. Moe’s intent was clear.

“She didn’t mean it,” he said, anger tinged with desperation. “She’s been offered another job. Once she sees reason, she won’t take your offer.”

“Won’t she? What about her pay? If the library won’t suffice—”

“She’ll work part-time at the hospital! That’s final!”

Gold’s lopsided frown nearly gave away some sympathy for the florist. “I think you may find that your daughter is an adult who can make her own decisions.”

“She doesn’t know what you get up to in that shop of yours. And I won’t let her get involved.”

“Again, not your decision. Unless, of course, you wanted to _ensure_ that I don’t hire her.”

Moe’s breath stuttered. He pressed his palms to the counter. They slid a few inches from sweat. “If I made a deal with you, you’d have to agree to _never_ speak to her again. Neither you nor your son.”

Gold stiffened. He might’ve conceded to Moe’s first demand, but dragging Neal into this? The boy hadn’t done a thing wrong. Even as he thought this, Gold glanced around and wondered if any plants were worth that price.

He tried to concentrate on the benefits of primrose (anti-inflammatory) and lilacs (arthritic balm), but his mind kept summoning the image of Neal and Belle sharing banter. It had all been a tactic to distract Belle—not much of a foundation for a relationship. But Neal had prompted him to help the young woman. Neal liked the idea of helping anyone in trouble, but maybe he also wanted to build more friendships. He had Lily Vincent and August Booth, his closest friends, and there were other congenial acquaintances at school through them. Maybe that wasn’t enough for his boy. Maybe despite what Belle expected of a typical teenager, Neal did want friends with people of various ages, including pretty twenty-somethings for whom he and his magical father could play heroes.

And maybe Gold found himself resenting the idea that he couldn’t continue to enjoy Belle’s presence. It wouldn’t be a great loss, yet it annoyed him. The notion that Moe wanted to punish Neal for nothing except being Gold’s son irritated him even more.

“On second thought,” Gold said, slowly turning about to meet Moe, “there isn’t anything here I need. Not today.”

“What? No! You can’t just—”

“French, your daughter is trying to sleep. There’s no need to yell.”

“You said you’d make a deal!”

“I said I was interested. That was before. One’s perspective can change quite quickly.” The smirk of the cunning herbalist returned. “I gained a new perspective on my business setup. I can always benefit from some new plants, but there might be more benefits from a new employee.”

Moe set his teeth together. “Go to hell, Gold.”

The barb provoked only a quiet laugh. Smiling, Gold headed for the door.

“Even if I can’t convince her,” Moe called, “she’ll see through you eventually. She’ll see the monster you are.”

Mr. Gold paused at the door. Without looking back, he said, “If she asks, I’ll tell her the real reason for your resentment of me.”

He didn’t need the satisfaction of Moe’s stricken reaction. The sheer, pin-drop silence behind him sufficed. Gold’s smile faded. He pushed open the door and left. The bell jangling overhead punctured the quiet.


	3. Books and Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle's first day at the library turns into an opportunity to meet more of Storybrooke's residents, as well as learn more about the enigmatic Mr. Gold.

It had been a low-key few days before Belle started working at the library. The morning of Mr. Gold’s visit and his job offer had spurred that old protective streak in Moe that Belle mostly wished he’d move past in regards to her. A smaller, slightly ashamed part appreciated that he was concerned for her well-being. She’d take it over arguments or the cold shoulder. If her mother were still here, she would’ve had more resilience and energy to risk harsh words with Moe. Another parent would’ve provided understanding and support.

Was that cowardly? Childish? The question could wait until after her first shift at the library. When she came in, Belle momentarily basked in the quietude engulfing the place. It wasn’t a grand space, and the fluorescent lights cast everything in a stringent glare, but she thrilled at its peaceful mystery. All libraries, however plain, were jungles of knowledge, and she their eager guide and preserver. Her high heels clicked eagerly on the linoleum floor as Belle strode over to the circulation desk. A bearded man in his sixties was sorting through a cart of returned books beside it. He looked like someone who wanted to dress neatly, but somewhere between his house and the library he got hit by a hurricane that thoroughly mussed his outfit, and he remained unaware of this fact. This was Mr. Prentice, the head librarian (until now the _only_ librarian).  Belle pegged him a man of charming eccentricities.

He lifted his head as Belle’s footsteps drew closer. “Oh, morning!”

“Morning, Mr. Prentice,” Belle greeted. She held out her hand as soon as she was within reach to accept his.

“Michael, please.” Mr. Prentice gave her a firm, single handshake. “May I call you Belle?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, Belle, the weekdays tend to be slow in the mornings, but we just had a donation drive, so there will be plenty to do in the downtime.”

“No problem. Just show me where you want to start.”

When it came to the matter of the library’s cataloguing system, Michael Prentice knew the physical library like the back of his hand. With practiced ease, he labeled the new books and sent Belle to the shelves where they would now be residing. His weakest area was the computer system. Belle’s assistance proved particularly handy in this area. She planned to spend the next couple weeks updating the online catalogue and explaining how to navigate with the search engine. The entire site needed an update for its rudimentary features. Ambitious as she was, Belle knew to curb that one ambition until she learned more about the intricacies of web design. A private smile emerged as she imagined consulting Neal Gold on the subject.

Sooner than expected, lunchtime rolled around. Michael offered to hold the fort, not too hefty a task thanks to the feeble trickle of visitors. Belle gladly agreed to run over to Granny’s, if only for the chance to meet more people. From what Moe had shared, Belle guessed that Storybrooke was one of those provincial towns that hesitated to embrace outsiders. It protected its tight-knit community. She held out hope that most of its residents would be as charitable as the Golds.

Granny’s Diner wore the face of a homey, old-fashioned establishment with its vine-covered gables and corny neon signs. Belle wondered at the wisdom of a front sign that only read, “DINER.” It did point to the door, but there was no mention of daily specials, nor even typical menu items. She wouldn’t complain. It was just nice to get to know the town.

That said, as Belle walked in, a wave of self-consciousness hit her thanks to the dozens of eyes that swung round. An automatic reaction, she told herself. If only “automatic reaction” could excuse why some gazes lingered. She focused on the counter where a gray-haired woman, her glasses riding low on her nose, bustled up and down the bar delivering drinks and plates of food. Belle positioned herself at the counter to catch the woman’s attention. Moments later, a twenty-something woman with red streaks in her brown hair and wearing a waitress outfit stepped out of the kitchen. The older woman—Belle guessed this was Granny—spotted the new librarian.

“Ruby,” she said while nodding at Belle, “take her order.”

The young woman sighed, but then she slapped on a bright-red smile. Intrigue filled her expression when she faced the newcomer. “Oh, hey! What can I do you for?”

Belle greeted her and ordered a slice of lasagna, a burger, fries, one iced coffee, one iced tea.

“That’s to go?” Ruby asked while scribbling everything down.

“Yes. I’m actually just down the street at the library. My first day on the job.”

“Oh!” Ruby tucked the pad into her apron and leaned on the counter toward Belle. “You _are_ new in town, then. First the Nolans, now you. I’m starting to think this place might actually get interesting.”

Belle giggled. “I’m Belle. Moe French’s daughter. You’re Ruby?”

“Yup. Nice to meet you, Belle.” The waitress tossed her head back. “That old windbag is Granny. Specifically my granny, but everyone calls her that.”

“Then this is your diner,” Belle noted.

“Well, technically the Millses own the property, but yeah, it’s Granny business.”

“That’s wonderful!”

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? It’s not that amazing.”

“But it’s nice that you and your granny have a business together.”

Ruby still looked skeptical. Her head tilted as she asked, “Doesn’t your dad own the flower shop? At least there you get to work with plants instead of greasy food.”

Belle shrugged. “I don’t actually work there. I’m still considering a second job to supplement the library work.”

“Hey, we could always use another waitress. I could actually get time off.”

Belle wasn’t sure she had the stamina or speed to be an effective waitress, but from the way Ruby perked up at the idea, she didn’t want to dismiss the idea outright. Working at Granny’s could be a fast track to becoming an insider.

“I’ll think about it,” Belle said. The statement was sincere.

“Great!” Ruby all but bounced on her feet.

“Ruby!” Granny snapped from down the counter. “Stop fraternizing and get those orders to the kitchen!”

The brusque command made Belle flinch. Ruby merely rolled her eyes, winked at Belle, and sauntered back through the swinging doors.

Twenty-five minutes later, Belle returned to the library. She and Michael chatted as they ate, discussing their previous library experiences, then expanding into places they’d respectively lived. She described her years at uni in Perth, both in medicine and library sciences, and how she’d originally grown up in Darlington and taken horse-riding lessons at Avonlea Farm. Michael grew up in Cardiff, Wales, but he and his father moved to the States when he was nine. Boston and New York had provided more opportunities for his father to expand his practice as a legal consultant. Michael took a more academic career path, ultimately becoming a research professor of literature at Boston University before retiring to Storybrooke several years ago.

“Why Storybrooke?” Belle couldn’t help asking. It was such an out-of-the-way town, one she wouldn’t have known about had her parents not moved here after Moe’s original business went under. She wasn’t even sure how they had learned about it, except they had wanted a fresh start and a more economical lifestyle.

“My father and I lived here a short time during out nomadic years,” Michael said. His eyes swam with nostalgia. “It’s a small, unassuming place, but we always felt a special connection to it. What about you?”

Belle cleared her throat. Her reasons weren’t so sentimental. “My father’s health has suffered lately.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re Moe and Colette’s daughter.” Michael’s smile fell. He nodded, wise and caring. “My condolences.”

“Thank you. It’s been a few years since my mother’s passing.” Belle swallowed. On one level, she knew she’d come to terms with that tragedy. She _should_ have accepted it by now. Yet, right at this moment, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d mentioned her mother’s death out loud.

“That doesn’t make it easier to face,” Michael observed.

She rapidly nodded. Surely he would know—given his age, his father had likely passed. But if his father had been his only family, that was all the harder for Michael. She did still have Moe. Frequent disagreements notwithstanding, they could still support each other. That was especially important to remember now.

Michael said, “Are you going to be his nurse, what with your training?”

“Not exactly,” Belle said. “It wouldn’t be ethical, since I never even got my degree in nursing. I _can_ help him manage his prescriptions and monitor his overall health. I’d like to get him to make regular visits to a doctor. You know how stubborn some people can be.”

Michael chuckled. “That I do. I could name many such people in this town. But you learn to adjust and work around it.”

Belle sighed and sipped her iced tea. Privately she hoped she’d figure her way around Moe’s staunch belief that he didn’t need to waste money on pills and medical consultations that couldn’t stop the inevitable.

Their lunches polished off, the two librarians returned to cataloguing and maintenance. During another round of labeling and shelving, Michael began to show signs of irrepressible discomfort. At one point he stopped what he was doing, winced, hunched, and rubbed circles on his stomach. An alarm sounded in Belle’s head when she saw him do it. She set the books down on a table and hurried to his side. “Are you okay?”

“Just the usual stomach problems,” Michael said, smiling through the pain. “I’ll just run to the restroom.”

“Do you have your mobile? If you need anything, give me a ring.”

“I assure you it’s nothing serious. But I’ll call if things take a dire turn.”

The restrooms were on the far side of the library from the circulation desk. Only a few people had come and gone and no one was visiting now, but she thought it best to wait at the desk for anyone who might check out a book. It was a wise choice, and a profitable one.

After a few minutes of serene solitude, Belle heard a pair of voices in conversation approaching the library doors.

“I don’t care,” said a girl’s voice. “I’d give that guy another one, even if it meant expulsion.”

“I’m more worried about what _they_ will do,” said a boy’s voice. Belle was pretty sure she recognized it.

The entrance of the young visitors confirmed her guess and wish. Neal Gold pushed open the door and let his companion—a dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-mood girl—stomp in first.

“Neal!” Belle called as soon as he was inside. “Good afternoon!”

Neal’s slightly sour mood sweetened with a half-smile. “Hi, Miss French.”

“You can call me Belle,” she said. “How are you?”

Neal dropped the smile. “Eh . . .”

“We’re just peachy,” the girl beside him grumbled.

The library’s entrance didn’t have direct lighting. That didn’t thwart Belle’s ability to recognize Neal. But her cheer from seeing him turned to astonished perturbation when both teenagers came into the unforgiving white light. The girl had a split lip and a bruise growing around her mouth and chin. Similar coloring marred Neal’s nose, and a little blood had dried on the tip.

“Oh my God,” Belle muttered.

The girl smirked. “You should see the other guy.”

The comment brought small consolation. Good to know that the kids hadn’t fought _each other_. Even so instinct screamed for Belle to demand every detail, including whether their parents knew what had happened. She’d never fought in her school days, but she’d had enough verbal spars with bullies to know that fussing adults made things worse. She shoved down her worry and masked it with casual curiosity.

“Who was the other guy?”

“Someone who deserved what was coming to him.” The girl walked past Neal, apparently planning to wander among the bookshelves, but she hesitated with mounting confusion. “Why are we here, Neal?”

“Well, our parents wanted us to wait ‘outside’. We’re still technically outside the shop.”

Belle remembered her walk to the library this morning. She’d failed to notice her first day in town that the library was almost directly across from Mr. Gold’s herbal shop. They must’ve just been there. And their parents were probably having a serious talk.

“But now we can’t eavesdrop on them,” the girl pointed out.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want either of us making a scene if they said something stupid.” Neal shoved his hands into his pockets.

“What do you mean?” Belle asked.

He sighed. “Dad doesn’t want any ‘negative influences’ in my life. If he thinks Lily here is one, well, I might’ve punched him, too.”

Belle pinched her brows upward. “You don’t mean that.”

“Maybe not,” Neal said with surprising calm for a roughed-up, angst-ridden adolescent. “But I’d probably yell at him.”

“I might’ve punched him,” Lily said lightly.

“Yeah, we _definitely_ didn’t need that happening.”

“So, you came here,” Belle said. “I can’t tell if that was an insolent gesture on your part, or a sensible one. I’m guessing your parents don’t know you’re here.”

“They’ll find out soon enough.” A pleading look crossed Neal’s face. “You gonna call my dad?”

Belle pretended to mill this over before shrugging. “It would be the responsible thig to do—if I had his number.”

The anxious frown gave way to a knowing smile. Neal looked at Lily. “Told you she’d be cool.”

“Oh, don’t start that now,” Belle said with a hand on her hip. “I’ll make sure your parents can find you. But for now, you’re welcome to hang out here.”

Neal seemed satisfied, even at ease with seating himself at a table between two shelves so he remained in Belle’s line of sight at the circulation desk. Lily, his friend, continued to look restless. Belle could imagine that the girl’s anger at whoever punched her, or fear that she’d be in big trouble soon, wouldn’t easily dissipate. She could also guess that Lily wasn’t inclined to talk about any of it, especially with a stranger. Belle resumed typing up labels for the new books, just as Michael had shown her, while also watching the kids at their table. Soon the pair was chatting in hushed tones Belle couldn’t hope to overhear.

Michael returned a short while later, looking a little better. Speechless wonder, maybe even a little wariness, caught up to him when he saw Neal and Lily. They heard his footsteps and snapped their heads in his direction. Neal waved at him. Lily simply stared with wide-eyed intensity that got Belle wondering how well everyone in Storybrooke knew each other, and where those relationships fell on the loving-to-belligerent scale.

“I wasn’t expecting to see them,” Michael whispered to her as he came around the desk.

“They’re hiding from their parents for the moment,” Belle explained with an amused but kind smile.

“Oh. Then we should contact their parents, no?”

“I think they’re across the street at Mr. Gold’s shop.” Her latest memory of the older Gold in her father’s shop, a strange but intriguing man whom Moe seemed antagonistic toward, surfaced in her mind. “Do you know the Golds well?”

“I see them around.” Michael spoke as though he wasn’t keen on pursuing the topic.

Belle didn’t want to be rude, but that attitude just made her want to know more. “I imagine so. His shop is just across the street.”

“Yes, but Mr. Gold likes to keep to himself, as do I.” The old librarian’s head stayed bowed and furrowed as he picked his way through the latest cart-load of books they were still processing.

“Does he seem a decent man?” she asked.

Michael paused. That question demanded serious thought, it seemed. With a sigh, he straightened without fully turning toward Belle. “He’s a complicated man. He loves his shop and he loves his son. He doesn’t love much else, for various reasons.”

“He seemed nice when I met him,” Belle said.

Michael’s eyebrows wanted to jump off his forehead. “Oh?”

“He helped get my car’s engine back in order when it broke down in front of his shop.”

Belle’s breath caught with surprise and bewilderment at the sharp turn of Michael’s body in her direction. “He helped you?”

“Y-yes.”

“Did he ask for anything?”

Belle gave herself a calming moment to recall the incident again. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t.”

The old man’s deep brown eyes narrowed. A twitch attacked his lower eyelid. “Huh.”

Baffled as she was, Belle leaned toward him. “What?”

He opened his mouth. Clearly there was something important she ought to know about Mr. Gold. But Michael paused, silently deliberated, then back-pedaled with a headshake. “Like I said, he’s a complicated man. Normally he wouldn’t be the first to help a stranger.”

Belle bit her lip. More pieces to the puzzle that was Mr. Gold were presenting themselves. Not many, but enough to point to something indeed complicated. She glimpsed at the teens to make sure they were still at the table, then asked, “Does he normally ask for some payment for his services?”

Michael’s mouth tightened. “He’s a businessman through and through.”

“Then why did he help me?”

To this, her boss could only shrug. After a minute of them both wordlessly working on the catalogue, he added, “Maybe he’ll ask a favor of you.”

Belle paused her hands on the keyboard. Her father’s shouting—Gold’s presence in the shop—her father’s insistence she not go work for the man. Was that why Gold had visited the flower shop?

“Would offering me a job count as a ‘favor’?”

Michael stopped in the middle of picking up a book she’d just stuck a label on. “I’m not sure.”

“It was just an offer,” Belle clarified. “I could turn him down.”

“You’re considering a second job?”

“I’m afraid I have to. I’m not going to depend on my father’s income, even if I’m living with him.”

“I would consider all your options before working for Mr. Gold,” Michael uttered in an even tone.

Belle swiveled her chair away from the computer. “I don’t understand. What’s he done?”

“Oh, it’s not like that,” Michael added in a rush. “It’s just—well, he doesn’t get along with most people. I’m rather amazed he asked you to work for him. As I understand it, his line of work is . . . delicate.”

“Oh.” Was this supposed to assure her, or just confuse her further? “Then maybe I should visit his shop for a better look at what he does.”

Again, Michael opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking.

“All right,” Belle said in her ‘stern librarian’ voice, “what are you not telling me?”

The last thing she expected was laughter, even subdued chuckles, but such was Michael’s reaction. Her surprise only amused him more. He clapped a hand on her shoulder. “My dear, every town has its oddities and secrets. If you’re bent on learning them, I only urge caution. You might be disappointed by how banal we are.”

It was impossible not to narrow her eyes at him, but Belle gave in to the sudden humor of the moment with a gentle chuckle. “I guess I like looking for adventure and mystery.”

“My only concern is you don’t rope yourself into a job with a boss you can’t stand.”

“I’m not afraid to walk away when I need to,” Belle said, raising her chin with that edge of defiance that always drove her father crazy. “I did come all the way from Australia. And, speaking as an Australian, I can handle myself around nasty critters.”

The uneasy mood had dispersed, yet Belle’s interest in both Mr. Gold and his son refused to dwindle. She also couldn’t stop musing on Lily. Antsy as she was, the girl settled down a bit in Neal’s company. Their comfortable rapport and the fact that he’d help her beat up a creep (so Belle hoped) suggested a strong bond. Maybe beyond friendship. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Belle shook her head and laughed at herself.

“What?” Michael asked.

“Oh, nothing. I caught myself pairing off those poor kids over there.”

Michael chortled. “You wouldn’t be the only one. They’ve been best friends for years. Lily Vincent, that’s her name. Their parents have known each other even longer.”

“Wow, really?” Belle’s matchmaker cogs once more turned. “Is there anything going on between the adults?”

“I doubt that. Ms. Vincent—the mother, I mean—is about as stand-offish as Gold.”

“Maybe that works for them,” Belle suggested with a half-shrug.

“If that’s so, things will get very awkward if the youngsters develop feelings for each other.”

As much hilarity as that idea evoked, Belle muffled her giggles behind clasped lips.

The scene returned to a tranquil murmur of activity. The donated books were finally marked and put away. As soon as the last book rested on the shelf, Belle checked her watch. It was close to 4 o’clock. Seemed like a reasonable time to return the kiddies to their parents. She stopped by the desk to let Michael know of her plan. Her arrival at the table saw the soft-spoken dialogue between Neal and Lily come to a sudden halt.

“It’s almost been an hour,” Belle announced. “Time to head back, darlings.”

Lily’s temperament had shifted from grouchy to anxious. “Do we have to?”

“The worst thing your parents could do is kill you, right?”

That got both kids to snort and snicker. Belle beamed. “That’s the spirit. Come on.”

There was still plenty of reluctant shuffling. She hugged them both around the shoulders to shepherd them out the entrance. “It was nice to have you visit. We should do this again.”

“Only if we need a place to hide,” Lily said.

“There’s that,” Belle said. “I liked coming to the library as a kid when I needed a quiet space to myself. By the way, Neal, I might ask for more advice about e-books. I’d like to have electronic copies of our books available in the catalogue.”

Neal perked up. “Yeah? Sure, if I have time.”

“Let me know if you do.” She wanted him to have no doubts that his presence and help were wanted, but she wouldn’t press-gang him into volunteering. “Lily’s welcome, too.”

“I’m not really good at anything,” Lily muttered.

“You can provide moral support,” Belle said while giving Lily’s shoulder an affectionate rub.

Somehow she managed to get two fourteen-year-olds across the street without either of them making a break for it or throwing off her arms. Their hesitation upon nearing the shop door could be felt on both sides, so Belle slowed her pace to accommodate while still proceeding. It turned out the timing saved them from the last twenty feet to the shop.

The door opened. Mr. Gold stepped out with a briskness belied by his cane. While she wouldn’t call his manner angry, he gestured with a degree of indignation. “Where have you been?” He was wordlessly followed by a tall, blonde woman in a black blouse, a gray pants suit, and matching tie and fedora. She had no outrage, only a furrowed expression that, rather than regarding Lily with consternation, aimed cool distrust at Belle.

“They’ve been with me,” Belle jumped in. Her hold on the teen’s shoulders remained firm and, she hoped, supportive. “I let them stay in the library for a short while. They’ve been well behaved.”

The woman’s skepticism didn’t waver. Gold looked like he’d been smacked with a fish that had jumped out of thin air. He was less offended and more bewildered at this uncanny outcome.

“Ms. Vincent?” Belle addressed his steely-eyed companion. “I’m Belle French, the new librarian.” She let the kids go to offer her hand to the imposing woman.

She wasn’t entirely surprised when the woman didn’t immediately reciprocate. What did surprise her was to hear Lily behind her. “Thanks for letting us stay at the library.”

Belle smiled back at Lily. “No trouble!”

When she faced the mother, Ms. Vincent was eying Belle’s hand. Her mouth, painted red like Ruby’s, relaxed into a less threatening expression. Her hand smoothly moved forward. Long fingers clamped around Belle’s knuckles and palm. For the first time, fear jolted through Belle. Ms. Vincent’s hand had delicate proportions, yet Belle was sure she could’ve crushed the librarian’s hand if she wanted.

Gold took this all in with persistent wonder. He endeavored to cover his disbelief with a look that both questioned and scolded Neal. Belle made sure to keep smiling while Ms. Vincent shook her hand, then directed that smile at Gold. “Nice to see you again, too. How goes business?”

The stare he gave her was so frank, so confounded that she had to fight back a laugh. His mouth even flapped with lost words. It was dangerously adorable. She _had_ to let herself grin openly.

“It’s fine,” Gold finally got out.

“I’m still considering that job offer.” Belle looked at Ms. Vincent. “He said he might need some help here at the shop.”

Ms. Vincent’s eyes and eyebrows showed more restraint, but Belle wondered if mentally her incredulity was just as strong as Michael’s. “Did he, now?” Those slightly widened eyes flicked straight to Gold, whose own gaze jumped over to some spot near Neal’s head.

“I’ll have an answer for you very soon,” Belle said with more gravity. Remembering his visit to the flower boutique helped sober her. “We should talk about a couple other things, too, if this goes forward.”

“Oh?” Gold spoke with a sharper edge, like he wasn’t used to other people laying down conditions.

“Just some logistics.” Belle would’ve preferred explaining herself now, but not with Ms. Vincent _right there_ , her height and stare a distraction and invasion of what ought to be a private conversation. “I’ll stop by when I’m done at the library. Would six-thirty be all right?”

“So long as I don’t have any customers at the time. I close the shop at seven.”

“I’ll make it a quick visit. I better head back.” After another brief smile at Ms. Vincent, Belle pivoted to Neal and Lily. “See you guys around?”

Lily shrugged. “Sure thing,” Neal said with that signature half-smile.

Belle waved them goodbye and crossed over to the library. Regardless her father’s disapproval or Michael’s cautionary remarks, even her own recent insights, Belle wasn’t intimidated by the prospect of working for Mr. Gold. She walked tall. She was taking charge of her life, after all. Taking care of her father wouldn’t get her stuck in a rut. Michael was right about there being something special about this town. She couldn’t begin to guess what made it so, but fate had plopped her here, and some inexplicable tug in her gut drew her to these people, even if they couldn’t fully welcome her just yet. She’d learn their mysteries bit by bit and, more importantly, make a positive difference. Maybe starting with her neighbor across the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my contribution to the Rumbelle Revolution, per the request of some readers. Thank you for your support, guys!


	4. Parents and Punishments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What did happen to Neal and Lily at school? Gold finds out and has some enlightening chats with his son, the principal, and Ms. Magdalene Vincent.

There were worst ways for any given day to go, but getting a phone call from the principal at your son’s school with news that said son had assaulted another student certainly belonged on Gold’s list of Things I’d Rather Not Deal With. Yet the first question to leave his lips was, “Did my son have a good reason?”

“Good reason?” Principal Nottingham sputtered, balking at the insanity he deemed present in Gold’s words. “Mr. Gold, we have a zero-tolerance policy for violence at this school!”

“Could you at the very least tell me who else was involved?”

“If you and the parents of the other students wish to set up a conference, I can arrange an appointment.”

“Other student _s_?” Just how many kids did Neal try to fight?

“Yes—Lilith Vincent and August Booth. I suggest waiting until the conference to discuss this matter with their parents. I want to handle this situation as judiciously as possible.”

“Of course,” Gold said. The words churned in the back of his throat.

The growl had its intended effect, if the principal’s “ahem” was any indication. “Y-you can imagine that this behavior warrants suspension, Mr. Gold. You’ll receive a written statement of the facts and my decision on how to proceed within the next few days. The same will be so with the other children.”

“And if I don’t agree with your decision?”

“You have a right to a hearing, of course.” Another clearing of the throat. “This is a serious situation, as I’m sure you understand—”

“I’m coming to pick up my son now,” Gold said as he turned over the pawnshop’s sign to ‘Closed’.

“Yes, yes, please do. Thank you for your time.”

Gold snapped his flip phone shut. He still writhed at the fact that someone decided it was a good idea to put that man in charge of children. He didn’t trust Keith Nottingham’s judgement as far as he could hurl him. Then again, with the right amount of effort, he just might try hurling the principal quite a distance.

Maybe Gold felt responsible for this uncharacteristic aggression in his boy. Not that he was beating people in back alleys with his cane (despite a few fantasies). But while he provided a well sought service in the community, he wasn’t by any stretch popular. Moe French had sympathetic compatriots.

Some had asked, even begged, for more than even Gold could deliver, he whose gift with herbal medicine astounded his clients. Such a gift inspired a little too much hope at times. To other citizens, the mere aura of the shop, old-timey and steeped in esoteric knowledge, hinted that the man wielded a power they could never understand. That notion earned in turns respect and fear. Once, long ago, the shop had a friendlier atmosphere under the care of Rosalind Gold and her partner Olive Meriwether. Even when its current owner first inherited the establishment, their generous spirit carried on within it. Now, light still played on the glass counters, tin tea boxes and porcelain jars, but most of the store lived in a shadow of whispered memories. The ember of kinder times had been reduced to a flicker.

Gold hadn’t noticed the gradual change until he got a call from his ex-wife confirming she was not coming back. What hope this place had promised for the future nearly sputtered out. Gold alternately had avoided it and hidden in its gloom, even from Neal.

His son wore bravery like armor, reflecting the light of the world around him and hiding the scars. But the scars remained, as did a cloud of anger and sadness. The cloud would rear up, an overdue storm, in moods that took and left too suddenly to predict. Gold did notice that it came around most often around Neal’s birthday. Neal seemed increasingly aware, too, since each year he tried harder and harder to distract himself or pretend to be cheerful. It erupted in an outburst, anyway—maybe some shouting, a few cruel words, often followed by silence and isolation. Then he always apologized: “It wasn’t your fault, Pop. I know it wasn’t. I just wish . . .”

Gold never had the right words. He let Neal guide his response, normally a hug or an offer to get him something, anything, he wanted in town. Ice cream, donuts, a bagel with cream cheese—always food for some reason.

An offer of ice cream was probably not the right way to confront one’s son about a school fight. Gold pushed aside the impulse to overthink what to say to Neal, even when he arrived.

School was still in session, though close to dismissal, so most of the halls were empty. He was left to a relatively peaceful walk to the administrative offices. The reception area provided a buffer to the principal’s office so Gold could step inside, loiter near the receptionist’s empty desk and observe the space. It was then he noticed his son, a little bloodied around the nose but otherwise fine. Further in along a wall, parallel to the one on his right but out of the doorway’s line of sight, stood a row of chairs occupied by Neal and two other kids. Lily sat right beside him with a split lip, a bruised chin, and reddened knuckles on her right hand. She just whispered something in his ear. August Booth, tall and freckled, was struck with the fear of God at the sight of Mr. Gold. He buried his gaze in his lap and clasped hands. He had a couple more darkening circles on his face, including a black eye.

Lily saw Gold second to August. She bumped Neal’s shoulder with her own. Neal looked up, then tried to sink his head between his shoulders. Pure shame. Yet he did cut a glare at August before fully embracing chagrin.

Gold started at a calm stride toward his son. Hardly after two steps, a door somewhere on his left swung open.

“Mr. Gold!” Principal Nottingham hurried out of his office. Gold was briefly distracted by how the man tried to pass his greasy, barely combed hair as a legitimate style. The receptionist, Mrs. Loxley, made a furtive getaway from Nottingham’s office back to her desk.

“I’m here for my son.” Gold barely looked at the other man. His gaze and nodded urged Neal to collect his bag and come along as quickly as possible. Neal was inclined to agree, but as he stood, he regarded Lily like a soldier leaving a comrade to face the current skirmish on her own.

“I just want to thank you for coming so promptly.” Nottingham moved in and made a half-realized motion to shake Gold’s hand. One deadpan glance from Gold stopped him and sent his hand into retreat. Still, he kept talking. “I understand that this looks rather ugly, but we will handle this matter delicately.”

“We?” Gold asked.

“Well, the school board will be informed, of course. I-I can’t help that. There’s also the matter of your son’s permanent record—”

“Mr. Nottingham,” Gold said at a gentle volume, “I suggest you hold your tongue until we conduct our official meeting. I intend to seek legal counsel if it comes to that. Now, as I wish to waste as little of your time as possible, we’ll be leaving.”

By now, Nottingham had put a five-foot berth between himself and Gold. He nodded while trying to smile. “Yes, of course. I just---uh, well—”

“If you have something to say,” declared a woman’s voice behind Gold, “you might as well spit it out.”

Oh, brother. Gold barely held back an eyeroll before turning around.

Magdalene Vincent, sharply dressed and sharply tongued, swept into the reception area. She came to an ominous halt beside Gold, which he accepted since she became a filter for the unctuous presence of Nottingham.

“No, no, Ms. Vincent,” Nottingham sputtered. “I understand that you and Mr. Gold are very busy. And for your children’s sake, it’s best that we hold off further discussion of the matter for a better time.”

“I want an account of the incident,” Magdalene said, “here and now.”

Lily mimicked Neal’s turtlish pose.

Nottingham tugged at his tie. “Uh, well—”

“Not out here.” She sounded weary already. “In your office.”

Gold had to admit to admiration that she didn’t add “idiot” at the end of the sentence. What he didn’t like was how she faced him and, with a conspiring nod, roped him into an uncomfortable session with the already perspiring principal. He would’ve preferred taking Neal home and dealing with the technicalities later. But Nottingham might use the grace period to craft a damning case against Neal if he wished. Magdalene wasn’t taking that chance, and maybe Gold ought not to, either.

With an apologetic look and instructions that Neal and Lily sit tight, Gold followed Magdalene and Nottingham into the office.

Twenty minutes later, they emerged with a story that, quite frankly, didn’t do much to change Gold’s feelings about the situation. Under the force of Magdalene’s pointed questions, Nottingham conceded that Lily had been harassed first by August, although various accounts from the trio as well as witnesses didn’t completely agree on who started the physical fight and why. Lily didn’t seek a teacher for aid, so in Nottingham’s eyes, that made her partly culpable for what happened—Magdalene’s glower not withstanding. As for Neal, he interceded on Lily’s part, first to pull her out of the fight with August, then to fight August in her place. All this had occurred during lunch period, so plenty of students and a handful of teachers on lunch duty could paint a panorama of the event sequence. Lily and August started the fight; Neal finished it with August on the ground.

When the two parents and principal exited their private conference, Marco Booth was standing and waiting with his son at his side. Marco became awash with distress seeing two of Storybrooke’s most intimidating residents already in talks with the principal. To Gold and Magdalene’s surprise, though, Marco prompted August to apologize to them and Mr. Nottingham for fighting with Neal and Lily. The boy begrudgingly did. Gold wondered if Marco was aware that a simple apology wouldn’t let August off the hook for suspension. The old carpenter had a sincere air bordering on naivete. He did what he could to raise his son with a moral backbone, but maybe August took advantage of his old man’s goodwill. He did look chided, if only for his father’s sake.

Once the parents collected their children, Marco lingered to get clarification on a few details about the fight from Nottingham. The Golds and Vincents gladly left the Booths behind. Gold caught Neal meeting eyes with Mrs. Loxley, who returned his gaze in sympathy.

“We need to talk,” Magdalene said as they approached their cars, only a couple parking spaces apart.

“Can’t it wait?” Gold said.

“It’s in both our best interests.”

Neal slowed down as he neared the Cadillac Deville. Lily rested a hand on the passenger door handle of the Chevrolet Bel-Air while watching the adults. Gold checked on his son, feeling the scrutiny, before he replied to Magdalene. “If we do this, it’ll be at my shop.”

“That’s your idea of neutral territory?”

“It’s a place of business, open to anyone who cares to peruse it, but I can guarantee privacy.”

Magdalene looked hardly eased by his reasoning. Yet, after a glimpse at Lily, she nodded.

That was how Mr. Gold and Ms. Vincent ended up talking in the herbal shop’s backroom while the children were told to wait outside. By the time they arrived, Gold warmed up to the upcoming conversation. Suppose Nottingham had the gall to suspend Neal for standing up for a friend, as the boy himself confirmed during the car ride. August, while not exactly a friend, was a tolerable classmate when he wasn’t tagging along with kids who wasted every hour they could spare sneaking in a smoke behind the school or causing some vandalism in the way of graffiti or overturned trash and recycling bins. Lately he’d gotten into some gambling, or his “friends” often bullied him out of money. Today he came up to Lily, first pretending to be nice, even a little flirty, which Lily shot down. He switched to pressing her about his desperate situation—he owed fifty dollars to a kid named Lambert.

Now, Lily didn’t have the cleanest nose herself; she’d fallen in with similar kids who encouraged her to skip classes and stay out late. Lambert was someone she’d known and then made a point to avoid. The last thing she wanted was to give him her money.

Pleas and refusals turned to exchanged insults. August let some thoughtless barb fly that hit Lily on the worst nerve. The next moment her fist connected with his face. So, yes, Lily had thrown the first punch, but he’d clearly crossed a line! And then August retaliated by shoving Lily. She toppled into a lunch table, her face impacting on its edge. He didn’t even get a breath to insult her again or blurt out an apology before another attack from Lily. Neal was heading back from the bathroom when he ran into a gathering crowd of spectators. By then, Lily was on top of August, wailing on him.

As soon as he pushed through to the other side of the throng, Neal grabbed and hauled her away. He didn’t know about the table, so seeing her already reddening eye and jaw set him off to confront August. Despite some solid punches to his chest, August got back to his feet with only a few hearty coughs. Neal made the mistake of shoving him as the freckled boy stepped toward them. Adrenaline in flux and pride on the line, August didn’t give a thought to taking a swing at Neal. Both boys were soon grabbling, punching and pushing each other. The cheering students acted as a barrier to the two female teachers on duty. One of them retrieved Mr. Dunbroch, the gym teacher. While he had a prosthetic leg, he put every weight-lifting man in town to shame. His shouts were enough to bisect the crowd. His big hands grabbed the boys by their hair so they’d be in too much pain to keep fighting. As soon as it was clear he’d just landed himself in hot water, August weaseled out Lily as the instigator.

Gold made it clear to Neal that he shouldn’t have let the fight go on by pushing August. That said, he understood Neal’s indignity from seeing his best friend hurt. What he didn’t tell Neal was his deep displeasure at Lily’s behavior. Yes, it was irritating to be hit up for money, and perhaps August’s remark, whatever it was, deserved a thrashing. But by letting her temper overrule what good sense she had, she dragged Neal into trouble with her. That was not the sort of friend his son needed.

The teens agreed to wait outside the shop’s backdoor—they each had their tablets and phones to occupy them. Thank goodness for distracting technology. Relatively confident that their busy fingers would stick to the pulse of social media and keep their ears away from the chatter inside, Gold escort Magdalene into the backroom.

The two parents were swallowed by the soothing aromas of flowers, herbs, salts and oils coming from the raw materials of his products. The main worktable had a standing army of bottles, jars and bowls. Gold felt a little self-conscious about the mess. It was his work area, so he didn’t need to keep it organized for anyone but himself. Everything else in his life—his house, his showroom in the front, his finances, his wardrobe—were all kept in immaculate order. He never let Neal leave a shirt or even a sock lying around: either it went in the hamper or he never saw it again. He’d drawn the line at cleaning Neal’s room. Neal could arrange his belongings in some manner of manageable chaos. Creative spaces were given exception. Gold’s workroom was one such space—his potions den. His laboratory. A system existed, to be sure, so he could access this jar of ginkgo leaves and this box of goldenseal root, but once they were on the table, it became a collage of concoctions simultaneously in the process of creation.

All past this he led Magdalene toward the room’s front end, right behind the curtain to the show room. She’d caught glimpses of his handiwork before. It still felt exposing. A few comfortable chairs, upholstered in velvet, were summoned from a corner. On a nearby counter resided a portable stove, the barest equipment for making tea and frying up a meal if he couldn’t slip over to Granny’s diner or prepare something ahead of time at home. Gold rarely cared to leave unless urgency pressed him.

“This places smells like a garden collided with a soap factory.” Magdalene wrinkled her nose.

Leave it to a woman who comes into regular contact with furnaces, diesel fuel and heating oil to find the scent of gardens and soaps unpleasant. “Maybe one of my teas will improve the smell.” Gold went over to a counter where a kettle rested beside a portable stove. He filled the kettle with water from a sink and set it on the burner to boil. He then nestled himself in the chair and set his cane against one of the armrests. “I should’ve expected this day to come.”

Magdalene planted both feet on the floor while leaning back in her seat. She didn’t care to cross her legs when there was business at hand. “Is this in regards to your son’s cavalier behavior?”

“Cavalier? Neal might well have saved your daughter from more unpleasant consequences. I think I’m more in the right to be worried.”

“How do you reason that?”

“Your daughter was the first aggressor. Neal acted only after she put herself in harm’s way. That temper of hers—”

“You know how it is for her! I couldn’t have been clearer about it.”

Gold allowed Magdalene a moment to cool. While her pale blonde hair, fair skin and gray-blue eyes suggested the temperament of an ice queen, she was anything but. The cracks in her restraint showed through the tendons of her neck, in the harsh line her red mouth drew across her face like a bloody wound. She had years of practiced self-control behind her, but Gold knew better than to push her limits. He was sensible about these things. He had to be.

“I must make my son’s safety my priority,” he said once the tension in her face laxed. “You must understand that.”

“You bound yourself to a contract,” she replied.

“Not at the expense of my son’s welfare.”

“And what of Lily’s welfare?” Anger dissolved into no less troubling sorrow. Her sharp eyes bowed to the floor, not out of deference but from something that lingered in her thoughts much closer to home. Gold linked his fingers together and waited, patient as always.

Magdalene led with a sigh. “Lily has been asking about her father. More than usual.”

Gold’s head slowly bent down.

“There’s only so much I can say. I’m running out of excuses, and now she’s . . . she’s channeling her frustration into other outlets.”

“Teenage rebellion,” Gold reminded her.

“It goes beyond that. If it comes to it, I will track down her father. But you can imagine the complications involved. It could take a while, if it’s even possible. As for Lily, I need your guarantee that whatever happens, you will do as you promised.”

Gold dragged in air through his slender nose. It was hard not to bristle at what could’ve been a veiled threat. “Is this your way of demanding my special services? I could prescribe some remedies—”

“No. My daughter doesn’t need to be _medicated_.”

“There’s no shame in a little help to keep her nature under control.”

“ _Rupert_.”

Gold stiffened. An extra vibrato registered an octave below Magdalene’s natural voice. In a moment he recovered, tilted his head, and assumed a disapproving tone. “I meant no offense, Magda. No need to make it personal.”

She huffed with a duchess’ primness. “Sometimes I think you and your kind like to forget who has the real power, regardless of the adjustments we’ve _all_ had to make.”

“True. We all must adapt. I recognize that it’s harder for some. As I said, my services _are_ available if you wish to make use of them. I’m not sure how else I’m supposed to aid your daughter.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to step beyond the usual bounds.” She was annoyed by this parrying, so she moved on to what she presented as a compromise. “Your son has been, dare I say it, a positive influence on her. I don’t want her thinking she should depend on a man for protection, but he’s provided her companionship over the years. I understand why today’s events would prompt you to put an end to their friendship. If nothing else, allow Lily to have it.”

Gold pulled a half-frown. He was discouraged from his previous plan simply by the imagined scene of him telling Neal to stay away from Lily. “I doubt I could stop it if I wanted to. But I hold Lily accountable for today, regardless what he says. If she wants to get into fights, she’ll do so alone.”

His declaration went unanswered for a short while. Magdalene turned over her thoughts while her eyes drifted over the backroom. Gold took this moment to check on the steaming kettle. The water was hot enough to pour into a teapot and leave a couple of teabags to steep. When he returned to his chair, her attention wandered back to him.

“At one time, I would’ve encouraged Lily to fight her own battles. I still support it in the long-term. But, right now, she’s just a child. _I’d_ rather do the fighting for her. So please appreciate what I’m asking. It’s not easy to do.”

His acknowledgement came as a nod. Magdalene wore her pride well. As a young woman from a humble upbringing, her start in the heating business was far from glamorous. It suited her, though, the hard work. When the money rolled in, her business expanded with employees who did the bulk of the labor, but she still had the most experience and could be depended on for a sound assessment of repairs and installations she was brought in to oversee. She wore the gray business suit like a second skin. She also continued inspecting the wares of her trade, hands-on, traces of ash and oil inescapable. That was the pride of self-dependence. She wanted that trait to pass on to Lily. So yes, he could understand how this must have felt to a formidable creature, rolling over on its back and presenting its vulnerable side at the mercy of another.

Gold rubbed his thumb and forefinger on the head of the right armrest. “I don’t suppose you’re asking me to play a . . . a sort of surrogate father to Lily.”

Her scoff came with an arched eyebrow. “Let’s not give her the wrong idea. You needn’t be any friendlier—I know the _toll_ it would take on you. Just watch over her. Give her guidance if she seeks it. If there’s a standing credit as a result, I’ll be the one to pay it.”

“I charge consultant fees only by appointment.” His cheeky smile only widened under the force of her askance glower. He got up to fetch the tea before Magdalene answered.

After clearing a place on the work table, he set down the tea tray loaded with quaint blue-and-white china. Magdalene wisely waited in her chair until everything was assembled. Gold filled their cups with pleasantly bitter English Breakfast, and they sipped while discussing the logistics of Nottingham’s account of the fight and how it matched with Neal’s and Lily’s versions. Their children’s stories corroborated each other, which might have been a testament to their aptitude for conspiracy, but Gold and Magdalene felt it bolstered a defense against suspension. The trickiest points of contention lay in two facts: Lily threw the first punch, and Neal pushed August after he broke up the first fight, thereby initiating a second fight. Their parents had no misgivings or doubts about arguing provocation and self-defense, respectively. As the hands on the clock mounted next to the archway marked the passing of the hour, they built a case were Nottingham to hand out suspension notices.

A tingle of warning at the back of his neck begged Gold to pardon himself from the conversation and peer outside the back door. Neal and Lily were nowhere in sight.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Magdalene said while pulling out her phone. A couple calls to Lily’s cell garnered no response.

Gold tried the same method with Neal’s phone. Same outcome. In hopes that the children had only just wandered up and down Main Street to assuage their boredom, Gold and Magdalene exited by the store front, just in time to see the new librarian walking their Neal and Lily back to them. The sight and the exchange that followed blindsided Gold. Magdalene was not much less startled, though she conveyed it through silent intimidation. For him, he couldn’t even muster a reason to be annoyed at Belle French. He was the one who had tried soliciting a payment from her father not a week ago. It was odd, though, (and therefore dubious) that Belle saw it as her business to escort them to their folks after an hour of presumably watching them. Perhaps this was her idea of becoming part of the community, regardless the fact that “librarian” didn’t equate to babysitter or youth counselor.

“She was just being nice, Dad,” Neal fired off, though only after Magdalene and Lily left. “It’s not like she’s trying to get another favor out of you. Why do you always assume that about people?”

“It may seem unreasonable to you, but I’ve learned that trust must be earned.”

“And what’s she done to make you distrust her?”

“Nothing. I barely know her.”

“Then why did you offer her a job?”

Gold was putting the tea set away, the pot’s contents transferred into a thermos and stored in a minifridge under the counter, when Neal’s words stopped him short. “How do you know that?”

“I didn’t,” Neal said, hands in his pockets. “But I know how you are about magic. I’d hoped you hadn’t visited her to make her return the favor. Guess I was wrong.”

“Neal, I didn’t demand anything.” The pang of disappointment in himself—in how well his son knew him—tightened his throat for a few seconds. “Belle said she was open to the idea of working in the shop.”

Neal’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Well, if it’s her idea, then you should hire her. Then you’ll find out who she really is.”

“And you won’t have to help out as much.” Some of Gold’s smile returned.

Neal didn’t try to argue.

For the rest of the afternoon, Gold resumed managing the store, now open and receiving the usual trickle of clientele. Leroy, a hardy janitor, crept in for bi-monthly jar of iron-supplement tablets and a bottle of joint pain relief cream, accompanied by the side-eye that reminded Gold to keep his health issues secret. Other customers gravitated to the displays of thread, yarn, knitting and crochet needles, and the scarves and socks one could create with deceptively simple tools. Anton Bean was among them, the rotund giant of a man who oversaw the town’s community garden. Abigail and Frederick Knight stopped by to pick out new scented candles, completely organic and designed for aromatherapy. Marco hadn’t been by yet to purchase another bottle of wood finish, also organic and, by his own admission, more effective and less odorous than the commercial brands. His best friend, Dr. Hopper, did come in to ask about Gold’s pet products. Pongo was suffering from a gum infection. Gold had a limited selection of remedies for animals, but he easily pulled a bag of dog biscuits off the shelf and instructed the therapist on how and when to administer the homemade treats. If the infection didn’t clear up in a week, Hopper should come back and put in an order for a special formula.

In the meantime, Neal completed his homework in the backroom. Gold checked in every so often to ensure homework was indeed getting finished. He even looked over whatever worksheets Neal’s teachers had assigned. While not particularly versed in information technology, Gold assumed that Neal snuck in breaks to check social media or play a game on his phone. He allowed it so long as homework was in progress, too.

Both of them were done with work by seven o’clock. Gold closed the store for a second time and drove home with Neal. Halfway to their salmon-pink Victorian house, Neal breached a topic Gold had expected him to avoid like a contagion.

“Um, Dad? I’ve been thinking . . . maybe I should apologize to August and his dad next time I see them.”

Gold frowned. “What? Why?”

“It seems like the right thing to do. Should I apologize to Mr. Nottingham, too?”

“No,” Gold declared. “You need to avoid suspension. Let’s not do anything to compromise that.”

“I get that. But apologizing would be the right thing to do, right?”

“You said yourself you were helping Lily. Now it sounds as though you believe you were wrong.”

“It’s not like that, exactly.” Neal blinked hard and wiggled his nose. No doubt it was still sore. “August was being an a—a jerk. But I could’ve handled it differently. I could’ve yelled at him or something. Or gotten Lily away and reported to a teacher. That’s what Mr. Nottingham said I should’ve done. Maybe he was right.”

The corner of Gold’s mouth twitched down. “Neal, I won’t get into a long-winded explanation, but I’ve known Keith Nottingham for years. I don’t know why anyone thought he should be your principal. I’m not saying you shouldn’t trust most people in charge, but I will tell you that Nottingham has his own, personal reasons for punishing students for fights. He’s not interested in right and wrong.”

Neal watched his father for a silent minute. Their house came into view when he spoke. “Wow. You realize most parents would tell their kids to not think badly of other adults, right?”

“Other parents might have to worry about their children using any excuse to act out. I don’t have to worry about that with you.” Gold glanced at Neal, his look both pointed and playful. “Right?”

“No, Dad. I’m gonna organize a school-wide riot to get Mr. Nottingham to resign.” The boy was remarkably gifted at deadpan. At the end, however, a half-smile broke through his dry delivery.

Gold didn’t hold back his own grin. It faltered as he thought about his son’s previous worries. “You still want to apologize to the Booths?”

Neal nodded. “Mr. Booth looked so upset when he came in. August told him Lily punched him first. His dad looked at her, pretty angry, but he asked why she did it. Lily didn’t want to say, so I told him that August had insulted her. He went from being mad at Lily to being mad at August. And he could see that Lily had bruises, though not as bad as August’s. He told August he’d raised him better than to hurt people. He made him apologize to us. And—I don’t know. I could tell Mr. Booth was disappointed in us, too, but he wasn’t going to scold us. I don’t think August was all that sorry for what he did. He didn’t want to let his dad down, though. As much of a _jerk_ as he can be, he loves his dad. And it got me thinking: I gotta be at least as decent as August. I mean, wouldn’t apologizing by my own choice make me the bigger person?”

Gold sighed. The whole “bigger person” argument was overrated in his estimation. There were plenty of circumstances where protecting yourself and your loved ones was more important than being especially noble.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He steered the car into the driveway.

“Great. Thanks for the moral support, Pop.”

Gold cut the engine and turned to his son. “I won’t pretend I’m the expert when it comes to what the noble thing to do is. But I know this: there are people in this world who will take advantage of your good nature, Neal. Marco Booth isn’t one of them; Mr. Nottingham is. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that you have to be careful and not let anyone twist your generous gestures against you. If you apology to someone who hurt you or someone you love, simply because you hurt them back in retaliation, they will take that to mean they can hold your guilt over you like a Sword of Damocles.”

“Sword of what?”

“I mean like—like a guillotine, always hanging over your head.”

“Oh.” Neal’s mouth pursed into a frown. “Yeah, that sucks.”

“Indeed. I don’t want you going through life like that. You have to stand up for yourself, even if that means throwing a punch.”

“I’m pretty sure this is not the conversation Mr. Nottingham is expecting us to have. But I get what you’re saying.”

“Don’t worry about what Nottingham thinks.”

“Okay. But I care if it was right or not. I am sorry—but not _completely_ sorry.”

Gold chuckled. “Let’s leave it at that, then.”

“Really? You’re not gonna punish me?”

Maybe he should. There wasn’t some parental committee that could come in and condemn him for not grounding his son for a school fight. But that did sound like the responsible course of action. Gold leaned into his seat and stared ahead in thought. No Internet? No, that was next to impossible with Neal’s laptop and phone. Gold himself depended on Neal having a phone as a means to stay in touch. Sure, parents had managed parenting without this technology since humanity’s first days, but boy was it convenient. Even if Gold wanted to try it, Neal would find ways around it. Friends’ phones, computers at school, just to name a few alternatives. A more effective and manageable punishment would be to enforce added chores rather than take away privileges.

An epiphany came, and with it a smug expression. “Janitorial duties,” Gold said. “For the next week, I’ll pick you up from school. We’ll go directly to the shop. You’ll dust, sweep and mop the entire place. Then you’ll complete your homework. After I close up, we’ll go directly home. No going out with friends, no friends coming over.”

“Oh, come on!” Neal’s pleading look couldn’t undermine his father’s resolution. His grumbles were taken as a sign that Gold had chosen a satisfactory penalty. Even so, mild displeasure niggled at him.

“Hey,” Gold said, “let’s get some ice cream.”

Neal picked up his head off the headrest, despair discarded. “You serious?”

“My sweet tooth is calling. You on board?”

While no more ready to process this turnabout, Neal said, as though defeated, “Yeah, sure.”

Gold gave a kinder smile as he switched the engine back on.


	5. Mystery and Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle finally seizes the opportunity to speak further with Mr. Gold in his shop.

As a balmy wind fluffed her skirt and hair, and Belle was forced to push the spirited tresses out of her face, her eye was drawn across the street. The sign from Mr. Gold’s shop winked with the morning sun. The morning beginning her second week in Storybrooke, and she’d yet to properly visit. Wisdom had begged her to give the Golds space after the awkward aftermath of the school fight. Her instincts had pinched and kicked her for not taking steps to offer friendship, especially after something like that.

_You barely know him_ , wisdom reminded her. _You don’t really know him at all!_

That itch in her gut, the one that inspired her to run toward the first sign of something strange and exciting, gave a staunch retort: _All the more reason to learn more about him. He’s your work neighbor. He could be your new boss. You better check out his shop to make sure it’s on the up and up._ If the voice had a face, it would’ve winked.

Belle gave little credence to the notion that Mr. Gold was anything besides the owner of an herbal shop and the father of a smart, sensitive, loyal teenage boy. But both individuals had become fixed figures of interest since her arrival in town, and she’d resolved to get to know them bit by bit. Well, she’d held off for a whole week. That was plenty of restraint. Perhaps too much.

All that said, action had to wait a little longer. She still had a library to help run. So in she went, leaving the playful breeze and the twinkling shop sign behind.

Michael Prentice had gradually ceded the physical duties of library maintenance to Belle throughout the week. Today, he remained nestled in the staff office organizing paperwork. Since the library had plenty of quiet troughs in attendance, Belle gladly occupied herself with not just shelving books and refining the online catalogue, but familiarizing herself with the library’s layout. She wanted to know it as well as herself. It would facilitate directing visitors to any desired section and subsection. She wanted that knowledge for her own leisurely browsing, too. She also wanted to know why the library had an elevator. Yes, there was a second floor; it housed a loft that Michael once occupied, but he’d moved out when he could afford his own house. Now it was an empty cluster of rooms right under the clock tower—a beacon of cosmic orderliness. The library kept knowledge, the clock kept time. A cozy partnership.

But there was a third facet of this building Belle could not reach and fit like a puzzle piece into the library’s arrangement. The elevator had a button for ‘2’, the floor with the apartment, and a button for ‘B’, surely the basement. When she hit it, though, the button stayed unlit. The elevator failed to budge. Her agitated gray cells insisted that another entrance to the basement existed. She hunted along the walls of the library for a door to a staircase heading below ground. None turned up. One stairwell granted access to the upper levels, none down. That was a bit barmy, wasn’t it?

The mystery nearly distracted her from the self-appointed visit to the herbal shop until lunchtime came. On her way to the staff office to ask Michael about the basement, she checked her wristwatch. It was almost 12:30. If she wanted to make the trip to both Gold’s shop and Granny’s diner, she had to head out now!

After a short, indecisive dance between the staff office and the library entrance, Belle hustled out the door and tucked away the basement question.

She had enough sense, despite her haste, to check both ways before crossing the street. Her heart giddily jumped at the OPEN sign and the sight through the window of the herbal shop’s door. It was a shadowy space, illuminated more by shards of sunlight than the two table lamps and the one overhead light. Half the windows had closed blinds. As soon as she opened the door, a bell rang above her and the mixed aromas of herbs, scented wax, yarn, and something faint, smoky and acrid seeped into her nose. A little hesitation reined her first steps thanks to the absence of the shop owner. The OPEN sign _was_ facing out, so Belle deemed it acceptable to go in. Maybe Mr. Gold had popped out for lunch. Maybe she should’ve gone to Granny’s first, after all.

She seized the private opportunity to imbibe the setting. Even in minimal light, she could observe the full shelves. One side was designated for the kinds of bottles someone would see at a pharmacy. She recognized maybe a third of the brands. In fact, most of the bottles didn’t have a brand name or symbol at all. The labels looked professional, though. She selected a brown bottle at random and turned it a complete 360. Its label had a golden shine with black, engraved printing. The list of ingredients was meticulously honest (one would hope so), so the only mystery was where it came from. Then Belle noticed in the upper left-hand corner, almost hiding thanks to its slightly darker shade of gold, a small silhouette of a spinning wheel. She turned to the table and shelves displaying knitting and crochet kits, along with scarves, hats, socks. A closer inspection of the table and shelves revealed sewing kits, equipped with bobbins of the most handsome-looking thread she’d ever seen. She had no expertise in thread or yarn quality, but their beauty brushed away the idea of knitting and mending clothes as menial activities. They were like a set of paints and brushes waiting for someone to pick them up and make art.

Distant footsteps overlaid her own high-heel taps as she returned to the room’s center. The steps came from behind a curtain at the back of the showroom. The russet, paisley fabric fluttered, then was pushed aside. Hence emerged the previously elusive Mr. Gold.

“Miss French,” he drawled in what she hazily guessed to be a Scottish accent, “I didn’t expect it to be you.”

For a panicked moment, Belle felt like an intruder. A silly response to entering a store. She blamed his dark suit, the casual calm with which he moved into the room, and the trace of surprise in his face and voice. They impressed on her the sense that this was his special domain, more personal to him than his own home, and that her visit had not been anticipated. Again, quite silly. He’d offered her a job. Had he doubted her interest? Maybe she’d waited too long to talk to him.

“No?” Belle bucked up against bashfulness. “I hope you don’t feel I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Not at all. I imagine you’ve been preoccupied. How’ve you been settling in?”

“Quite well. The library has been slow. That’s made getting the hang of it easy.” The basement question poked its head from the “ask later” pocket of her mind. Belle pushed it back—as if Mr. Gold could answer it. “How’s Neal?”

“He’s enjoying a little spell of grounding.” Gold’s lips pulled up in a wry slant.

“Oh dear. Is he suffering horribly? Waxing your car? Scrubbing the shop floors?”

“Scrubbing, no. I’m picking him up in a couple hours so he can sweep and dust.”

Belle laughed sympathetically. “Poor boy.”

Gold shook his head. “He practically begged for a punishment. He berated himself over the fight.”

Her face kindly scrunched as she reflected with compassionate interest. “If he was protecting his friend, I can understand why he felt compelled to act. But I shouldn’t be advocating violence. At least, not where teenage boys are concerned.”

He shrugged, his smile warmer even in the dim light. “You can advocate it if you wish. Neal will do what he sees as right. That’s how he is.”

Belle’s smile pushed up her cheeks so that her eyes sweetly squinted. “You’re quite lucky.”

“That I am.” Gold carefully slid out from behind the counter, cane in hand. “Is that why you’re here? To congratulate me? Or are you here about the job?”

“I could do both.” Belle rushed another glimpse around the shop. “You’re sure you need someone to clean? It looks well kept.”

“That’s because Neal already started his punishment. Just for a week. After that, he’ll be back to spending quality time with friends instead of his old man.”

“So, if I work for you, I’d take over Neal’s temporary duties.”

“Essentially. Have you made a decision?”

It felt like a “looking a gift horse in the mouth” moment. There was no guarantee she’d find another job in short order. Moreover, working for Mr. Gold could help her forge a stronger relationship with her mysterious rescuer and his endearing son. By presumed extension, she’d also get to know more people in town, such as Gold’s clients and acquaintances. Sure, Magdalene Vincent looked imposing, and Lily wasn’t an extraverted butterfly of a girl. Those were feeble reasons not to try befriending them as well.

The one condition that barred an immediate acceptance was informed consent. Belle wanted to know as much as could be reasonably expected about the man and what kind of boss he would be.

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word, “I’d need an idea of what’s in the shop, since I might move things around while I’m cleaning. I don’t want to misplace any merchandise.”

A narrow, knowing edge in his gaze, Gold stepped closer. “Is that all? Or did your father tell you some tall tales about my wares?”

Belle puckered her lips. The question came out slick, almost joking, yet with a sardonic aftertaste. “He hasn’t told me much about anyone or their wares. He might think working as a cleaner is beneath me after all the money we sank into my education. When I last mentioned it, he got terse.”

The suggestion behind Gold’s question brought up a worthy concern. Belle held her spot while minding how much space there was between her and him. “Is there something I should know about you and my father?”

“Only that your father doesn’t like me, which hasn’t elevated my opinion of him.”

“Why would he tell ‘tall tales’ about your shop?”

Gold waved his hand toward the shelves upon shelves of medicinal jars and bottles. “This is not exactly your convention apothecary. You’ll meet more people who deem my business suspect. Medical professionals, mostly. If that’s why you’re hesitant about the job, I understand.”

Belle, put at transient ease, drifted to the shelves and retrieved the bottle--iron supplements—she’d examined earlier. The same bottle where she noticed the spinning wheel label. “I can see why people would prefer buying from the pharmacy. The pharmacy has to sell FDA-approved products.” After another eyeful of the bottle, she looked at Gold. “What is your policy on refunds?”

“I offer them, of course, if the purchase has unexpected negative side-effects. However, if you ask my regular clients about their experiences, you’ll hear little dissatisfaction. Among my detractors who’ve never set foot in here, it’s a different story.”

“Oh? I hope I’ll know who’s a trustworthy source.” Straight away she scolded herself. Not the best attitude to have when talking to a potential employer. It wasn’t going to be part of her cleaning duties to understand his health products. But working for him would mean condoning his business practices, right? She had to keep her own accountability in mind.

Gold scoffed. “Don’t expect many to sing my praises. I have several remedies for conditions that could cause embarrassment if they became public knowledge. But clients keep coming back. If my products were faulty, I’d have gone out of business long ago.”

Belle placed the bottle in its assigned spot. Facing him, she put a consciously friendly spin on the next question. This wasn’t supposed to be an interrogation. “How long have you been in business?”

“I inherited the shop from my aunt,” he said.

“Oh! A family business!” That couldn’t assuage all her concerns. But surely the shop’s longevity partly certified its value to the community. “Will Neal inherit it someday?”

“No idea. I’d like him to. He might want to see more of the world before tying himself down.”

“I was the same way at his age. I still am a little.” She covered the somber note in the remark by leaning a hand on the lowest shelf and cocking her head in a prying and inviting manner. “Is there anything you want to ask about me?”

Gold angled his head, not as acutely or coyly. “You mentioned studying nursing before you switched to library sciences. Why the change?”

Belle folded in her lips. Her downturned eyes hid behind lowered eyelids. Then she gathered a breath of courage. “I wanted a career where I knew I would be helping people day to day, and one where I would be mentally stimulated. Nursing sounded perfect. I didn’t expect it to overwhelm me the way it did. Sleepless nights studying for exams, clinic hours that worked my nerves raw. A lot of people warned me that I had to numb myself to a point, or I’d have a nervous breakdown. I could handle the work load on a part-time basis, but the long term? I don’t think I could’ve been happy or been the best caretaker I had the potential to be. I wish it’d been different. What better way to make a real difference in people’s lives? But I couldn’t make it work. I had to make a switch for my own health.”

Every word was a scratch from sandpaper. By the end of her confession, she felt a bit sore and exposed. She even rubbed one of her arms to chase off the irritated sensation, achieving no relief. Her gaze had lifted off the floor to a shelf across the room and fixed on that while she spoke. Now, her words spent, she had to look at Mr. Gold.

He veiled any feelings with professional composure. However, Belle dared to interpret the gentle line of his mouth, the small furrow in his brow, and the glance at his shoes as signs of understanding, perhaps empathy.

“It _is_ an immense responsibility,” he half-said, half-whispered, “having other people’s lives in your hands. It’s nothing to take lightly. You did what you had to do.”

The words didn’t coddle, which Belle appreciated. Their honesty didn’t just concern her history and career choices, either.

She looked behind and next to her at the pill bottles, lotions, soaps, candles, teas, then across the way at the knitted clothing, yarns and threads. A new light fell on them.

“You really try to help people,” she said.

Gold blinked and breathed slowly. “I do what I can.”

Belle nodded. “Then I’d like to help you help people.”

She hadn’t expected the abrupt puzzlement that seized his face. It faded quickly enough, giving room to a hesitant smile and an extended hand. “Then we have an arrangement, Miss French.”

Her own smile growing, she took his hand. “That we do, Mr. Gold.”


	6. School Scuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal meets a classmate, further complicating things between him and Lily.

Neal tried not to think on when he might get the word that Principal Nottingham was, in fact, going to suspend him. He checked in with Lily on the bus to see if her mom had gotten further word. Ms. Vincent hadn’t heard anything, or hadn’t shared anything with her daughter. Lily and Neal agreed to keep their heads down. Apprehension over a run-in with August at school petered off when it became clear he wasn’t in attendance. That still left the fallout of fellow classmates, who watched the pair like they were wild animals. Some sympathy, some unease, mostly perverse curiosity, like the students half-wanted another fight to break out. Neal wouldn’t have been surprised if some were thrilled to know a fight had happened at their school.

There was one person who didn’t look happy about the fight or his part in it. As he got out of fourth period for lunch, a blond girl swerved up to him from the other side of the hall.

“We need to talk.” Her green-blue eyes punched him in some place Neal didn’t know he had.

“And you are?” he asked.

“A friend of August’s.”

Oh, crap. Maybe she was sweet on August. Maybe she was the type of girl who would throw down anyone who hurt the boy she liked. Neal cleared his throat. “Look, I know I shouldn’t have fought him. I’m sorry. That’s what you want me to say, right?”

Her glare didn’t soften. Instead, she grabbed his arm. He wanted to extricate himself, but the moment he hit August flashed in his mind, as did the embarrassment that followed facing Nottingham and his father. His body stiffened, a semi-voluntary paralysis while the blond girl pulled him down the hall to a small alcove, a window facing the courtyard. The light of day only added a burning glint to her gaze.

“Why did you hit him?” Her voice, though rough with anger, stayed level.

“He shoved Lily into a table,” Neal said, not giving thought to the words. They came as a reflex.

“I heard she punched him first.”

“Yeah, but he said something he shouldn’t have.”

Her head tilted, briefly intrigued. “What did he say?”

“I’m not going to repeat it. It’s not . . . appropriate.”

The implication caused her face to scrunch and her cheeks to redden. Then it relaxed into grim if reluctant acceptance. “I know August can be an asshole.”

Neal’s brows popped up. He hadn’t taken her for a cusser. He smiled. “I don’t know him that well. From what I’ve seen, I won’t disagree.”

“Then I’m sorry for that. But you still kicked the crap out of him. He’s not here today. Was he suspended? Hospitalized?”

“Hospitalized, no! Suspended, I’ve no idea. If he were suspended, Lily and I would be suspended, too. Nottingham made it clear we were all to blame.”

The blond shuffled on her feet. “I heard your dad and Lily’s mom are . . . tough customers.”

He frowned and squinted. “Whereas August’s dad is a decent man. So that must mean . . .”

“I’m not trying to judge, but I don’t like people getting away with something when others have to pay for it.”

“So, you’re protecting August.”

“You could say that.”

“I was trying to do the same for Lily.”

“Then you won’t object if I end up punching you in the face?”

Probably not the wisest thing to laugh, and Neal did try to resist out of politeness. A half-stifled chuckle got through. “You would’ve done that already, or you don’t want to get suspended yourself.”

The girl harrumphed. “Don’t tempt me. I wouldn’t mind getting away from here.”

“Why?”

She sharpened her stare. “Why would anyone want to get out of going to school? You a nerd?”

“That’s neither here nor there. You know a suspension goes on your permanent record.”

“Obviously you weren’t worried about that when you punched August.”

“Neither were Lily and August. We all make mistakes when we’re upset. Look, if you want to punch me, go ahead. I wouldn’t blame you.”

She scanned him over. Neal’s stomach clenched in preparation. The stomach would be the ideal target. His mouth and jaw tightened, too. Just nothing below the waist, he prayed.

A sigh blew out of the girl’s mouth. “Relax. I’m not gonna hit you. Not with so many witnesses.”

“That’s a relief,” he said dryly.

“I haven’t decided about Lily yet. She did hit August first.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I know. What I really want is to know he’s okay. You’re not gonna go after him again, right?”

“Not with Nottingham on our backs. And when I said I’m sorry for what happened, I meant it.”

“Okay.” She inhaled, a little shaky and baffled. The crease between her frowning eyebrows turned her intimidating expression into an endearing one. She was kind of cute. Not the best time or circumstances to notice that fact.

“Um, I don’t think I caught your name,” Neal said.

“Because I didn’t throw it,” she said with a quirked eyebrow.

“Right. I’m Neal, in case you didn’t know.”

She chuckled. “I’ve been in this town barely a month and I know who you are. Everybody does.”

He couldn’t help the frown, but he pushed it away along with the comment. “And you? Or does that need to be secret?”

The girl shook her head. “Emma. Emma Nolan.”

“Nice to meet you, Emma. Still planning to go to lunch?”

“Yeah. On my own.”

“Okay. Mind if I walk with you?”

She considered before shrugging. “It’s the same route for us both, right?”

He took that as a speck of hope. With a subdued smile, he strolled down the hall just a step behind Emma. As they got close to the cafeteria, she slowed so he could match her pace. He thought about asking how she knew August, why be friends with a kid most everyone knew had a bad habit of getting drawn into trouble. The questions never came.

Both he and Emma stopped, stiff with shock, at the sight of Cora Mills. She was walking and chatting with Principal Nottingham. He was doing his best to appear charming and confident. At least his hair looked washed today. Her pantsuit was so black you couldn’t see the texture from where the kids stood. The only color was her button-up blouse—blood-red.

“Is that the mayor?” Emma asked.

“Yeah,” said Neal.

“What’s she doing at our school?”

“No idea.” The only thing Neal knew for sure about Mayor Mills was that she shouldn’t be trusted. He didn’t have much confidence in people in authority, but there was something about the way the woman talked, walked, carried herself that was too neat, like a well-made mask. What most bothered him was that she found occasion to drop by Pop’s shop. He’d only seen her twice; both times, she wasn’t there to buy anything. His father had either escorted her to the backroom or asked to take a short walk with him outside. The man wasn’t warm with strangers, but he reserved a wary countenance for certain individuals, and he advised Neal to stay away from them. Ms. DeVille, a fancy-dressed woman who lived only part of the year in Storybrooke, was one. The Millses fell in the same category. Cora’s daughter owned most of the property in town. Neal had seen Regina Mills around enough, often glaring or dicing someone with words, to spot a temper that shouldn’t be tested. Even her smiles made him want to dash out of her path. But Regina didn’t alarm him the way Cora did. Maybe she wore her nature more openly; Cora was harder to read.

“She’s Regina Mills’ mother, right?” Emma asked.

“Yup. The mayor and the landlady. Dad says the Millses think of Storybrooke as their little kingdom.”

Seeing as how the mayor and the principal were crossing the cafeteria straight toward them, Neal gently nudged Emma and wordlessly directed her to a nearby empty table. They slipped out of the way just as the adults passed. Cora’s gaze dropped from Nottingham to Neal—or maybe to Emma—for half a second. It felt double the time, like the world was slowing just to make the kids feel the mayor’s prying yet veiled glance for as long as possible.

Cora and an oblivious Nottingham kept walking. When the two were out of sight, Neal sputtered out air. Neither he nor Emma needed to comment. Judging by her scowl, Emma knew enough about Mayor Mills or Principal Nottingham. Her question about Regina pointed to Cora as the source of unease.

“You know the Millses?” Neal asked.

“Not personally. Just heard about them.”

“Like you’ve heard about me.”

Emma laughed shyly. “Not exactly the same. People have mixed feelings about your dad. No one likes the Millses.”

“That’s quite the compliment.”

She chuckled more confidently, but her smile dropped when she looked up.

Neal followed her eyeline. Oh, Lily was coming over, laden with her backpack and a tray of food. Nothing foreboding about that, unless Emma hadn’t forgiven her part in the fight. As Lily approached, Neal realized why Emma was frowning and darting her eyes up and down. Lily widened her eyes and rapidly examined both Emma and her oldest friend.

Neal waved and made sure to smile. “Hey, Lily!”

“Hey.” Her tray came down with a forceful clap, plastic on laminated particleboard. “What’s going on?”

“Uh, this is Emma. She’s a friend of August.” Hard to say that without it sounding like a criticism or a warning. “She wanted to know how he’s doing.”

Lily aimed a hard but still uncertain stare at Emma. “No idea. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“He’s not answering my calls.” Emma spoke with a steely edge that could’ve fallen in a reprimand, too. Maybe she wanted to blame someone other than August for his silence. Or she wanted to be sure Neal and Lily hadn’t bullied him into it. That thought made Neal’s nerves bristle. They weren’t like that!

“Maybe he’s embarrassed about yesterday,” Lily said. She took a seat, unapologetic.

“Are you?” Emma asked.

Lily turned her head to show her bruises, brown-purple blotches with yellow coronas on the cheek and chin. “Does this look like the face of embarrassment?”

Emma rolled her head, acknowledging yet unfazed. “August looked worse last time I saw him.”

Lily nearly tore open her soda can. Its _pop_ sent a shudder through Neal like a tiny gunshot. “I’m not gonna waste my breath defending myself or apologizing for what I did to him. He had to learn some manners.”

“Yeah, I’m sure punching him taught him a lesson.”

The wry, withering tone warmed Neal’s face, but he also felt a weird tickle of repressed laughter in his throat.

“He knows not to cross me again,” said Lily. She smirked before taking a sip, then popped a fry in her mouth.

Emma leaned in. “If you punched me, I’d hit back harder.”

The remark that reasonably caught Lily was obliterated by laughter. Genuine, unfiltered laughter. Neal almost giggled, too. Emma didn’t appreciate it. Her face flushed. Her shoulders locked. She looked ready for a fight this time.

“Hey, I believe you,” Lily finally explained. “You might make it a worthwhile scrap. Believe it or not, I don’t go looking for fights.”

“You just start them when the mood takes you.”

“So I lost my temper.” Lily threw up a hand, then put it to better use by delivering more fries to her gnashing mouth.

“That’s all you have to say?” Emma scoffed. “You’re unbelievable! You learn to control your temper!”

“What is this, a Disney life lesson? When people talk shit, they get hit.” Lily emphatically brushed crumbs and salt off her hands before picking up a bleeding meatball sandwich.

Emma shook her head. “Forget it. I’m getting lunch.” She pushed herself up like she was trying to rocket herself into space, as far from these two kids as possible. Off she jogged to the cafeteria hot-lunch line. Neal sighed, zipped open his backpack and pulled out a simple, black, thermo-sealed lunch bag.

“No Round 2 in the lunch room, after all,” Lily said between marinara-filled bites. “Okay, Neal, you’ve got to convince your dad to give you money for lunch.”

“Nah. Dad’s lunches are better.” They were relatively simple, too—today, a bagel with cream cheese, a cup of soup, a thermos filled with herbal tea, baby carrots. And a sprig of sage. Not for eating, just to make the inside of his bag aromatic. Neal was careful to not let anyone except Lily get a decent look at his bagel as he unwrapped it from the wax paper. It look freshly toasted, despite sitting in the bag for the last four and a half hours.

Lily smiled, bittersweet. “My mom can keep things warm, but even she can’t make a toasted bagel hold up. She usually burns it.”

Neal nodded. “Just as well Emma didn’t stick around.”

She frowned at him. “Don’t sound so disappointed. She’s not our friend.”

“I know that. She grabbed me in the hallway. I thought she’d deck me.”

“Yeah? Why didn’t she? Too chicken?”

“She realized it wasn’t worth it. But I don’t think this is over.”

“Ooh, I’m shaking.” Lily giggled while wiping her mouth.

“Lily, please, just be smart about this.”

Her levity evaporated. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours! Which includes keeping you from getting into more trouble.”

“I’m not getting myself into trouble on purpose! And I’m not some poor girl you need to rescue.” With a squaring of the shoulders that said, ‘We’re done talking,’ she set herself on ingesting the rest of her lunch.

Neal had little choice but to do the same. When she got like this, it was best to let Lily boil off. He used the silence to reflect further: was he treating her as a damsel in distress, or a problematic pet that needed leashing? Being a friend didn’t mean condoning fights. It didn’t mean snarling off anyone who had a legitimate issue with Lily’s actions. He sure hoped it didn’t mean those things. Lily was his best friend, but sometimes she boxed him in, made him feel he had to be on board when she wanted to skip class or start an argument with her classmates or teachers. Lily didn’t have a sparkling record. Even so, the fistfight crossed a line, and a part of him wished he hadn’t followed her. But maybe he had to break some of his own rules to understand how much her friendship meant to him. It still mattered. He still cared about her. He just hoped sticking by her wouldn’t take him down a path of no return.

When the bell for the end of lunch period rang, Lily all but bolted from her seat with her tray. Neal closed his lunch bag and gathered his own trash to toss out in the same can.

“See you later,” Neal said as Lily walked off.

She said nothing. She didn’t even make eye contact.

“Lily!” Neal called.

She spun around. “What?”

He waved to her—a simple motion. A retreat and an olive branch.

Lily held his eye as she resumed walking. She broke it off when she reached the hall and took a sharp turn.

Neal’s hand dropped like an anchor. With a headshake, he turned around. Off to his next class. _Are they all like this?_ he wondered. Maybe his pop could give him tips.


	7. Clients and Coworkers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle starts her first day at the shop while Neal finishes his last. A visitor brings ominous developments.

Neal’s punishment was coming to an end. To ease the transition for everyone, it only made sense that Belle start her first day on Neal’s last. Of course, Mr. Gold got some satisfaction and enjoyment out of seeing Neal’s face when he shuffled in, weary but ready to get this final round over and done with. Miss French was already there, taking stock of a shelf of therapeutic cosmetics. Gold had to pop in and out to run errands and organize the back room when another shipment of supplies arrived, so he was most pleased by his timing. He took his station at the counter, reviewing his ledger, while witnessing Neal’s bug-eyed response to Belle’s presence. He needed all his practiced composure not to giggle at his bewildered boy. 

Neal was so astounded he couldn’t even vocalize the emotion. After staring at a busy, oblivious Belle—oblivious except for a sunny, “Hello!” when he set off the bell above the door—he looked at his father and simply mouthed, “What?” 

“You’ll be happy to know,” Gold explained, “that Miss French will be taking over your duties. However, I’d like you to give her a rundown of how things work here. She might like your perspective.” 

“Oh, certainly,” Belle said. She returned another jar of facial moisturizer to its proper spot so her hands were free. “You wouldn’t mind showing me the ins and outs, would you?” 

“Uhh . . . no?” Neal said. 

“That’s my boy.” Gold let himself smile a little too widely. 

Given that Neal had been supportive of his father’s hiring of Belle, his shock was a little silly. No less entertaining, of course. It gave way to the enthusiasm expected of an adolescent boy granted the privilege of helping a beautiful woman. Neal got into the spirit of explaining every inch of the shop to Belle. Gold left them to it, only occasionally eavesdropping to hear Neal recount how he almost broke a glass case when he and Lily were running around (years ago), or how he and Lily used to play “Dungeon,” where they took turns tying each other up with yarn Gold kept stocked in the back room. When the lad led Belle to the utility closet with the cleaning supplies, Gold savored the quiet. So far, the situation was looking beneficial for all parties. Maybe he _had_ been paranoid. He needn’t drive himself to the brink at every bad thing that might happen. 

Mere minutes after this epiphany, a cool wind slapped him. The door of his shop had opened. The twinkling sang a chilly rather than cheery note. Gold looked up and silently cursed himself. He didn’t believe in “jinxing” the way most people did unless magic was in play. This could’ve been an unpleasant coincidence—or the universe flipping him the bird. 

Mayor Cora Mills strolled into the shop as if it was hers. Her roaming eyes weren’t looking for any one item to purchase; she was measuring up the establishment, as usual. Gold steeled himself. Time and again he told himself not to let her airs unnerve him. She wanted that, among other things. 

“Afternoon,” he said. Professional, detached. “How can I help you today?” 

Cora took her time finishing her sweep of the shop. “Is it just you here? Word is your son has been helping you as a janitor this week.” 

He should’ve known better than to turn his head even an inch to the curtained doorway to the back room. Cora’s eye caught the glance. “I see,” she said, lowering her voice. “Let’s take this outside.” 

“No,” Gold said. “If you have pressing business, discuss it here and now.” 

“Are you sure that’s wise? I suppose I could talk to your son instead about his pending suspension.” 

Gold tried not to hiss. Dammit. She knew what button to press to make him curl his mouth and forget the carefully crafted composure that shielded his true feelings. “What business is that of yours?” 

Cora smiled. “Step outside and find out.” 

With a grimace, he followed her out the front door, flipping the Open sign to Closed on the way. He broiled at how Cora was leading him like a leashed dog. Silently, he promised and plotted a way to return this courtesy. Cora was not without her weak points, much as she endeavored to guard them. For this reason, Gold made no other remark until they were around the shop’s corner and standing together in the little parking lot, occupied by Gold’s black Cadillac, Cora’s blood-red Mercedes, and Belle’s mustard-yellow rented hatchback that thankfully she planned to return within the week. Gold anchored his cane before him and spaced his feet to secure his stance. Cora linked her hands in front of her, fingers entwined but thumbs steepled. Gold likened her to a teacher who pretends to invite a student for a casual chat when she wants to extract information or pin him with an infraction. 

“I made a little visit to the high school earlier this week,” she began. 

“Oh? Looking to enroll someone? That longed-for grandchild Regina is never going to give you?” 

She gave a gentle scoff. “You’re not in the best position to be hostile, Rupert.” 

“I have a right to wonder why our prestigious mayor would deign to visit the peasants.” 

“Mr. Nottingham and I share a concern for the well-being of the community.” 

She had some nerve to feed him that line. Maybe she wanted to make it true through the power of repetition. “He raised a concern,” she continued, “about the presence of violence in schools. He cited your son as a recent example.” 

“I imagine you know the full context of what happened.” He held his calm by the skin of his teeth, which he remembered to keep mostly covered. Mostly. 

“I do know he acted on behalf of that Vincent girl. I’ve had a talk with her mother as well.” 

Gold frowned. He didn’t know whether to believe her. Magdalene would’ve warned him that Cora was on the warpath, right? 

“But I think you’ll be more receptive to my point.” The smile dropped, which Cora seemed grateful for. “I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior, Rupert. Not even from your son. 

“I get it,” Gold cut in. “You want something in exchange for guaranteeing that Neal isn’t suspended.” 

“That would make it a bribe.” She was all but _scolding_ him! Without a note of anger. Oh, she was probably insulted that he tried to push her to admittance of her motives. Her wrath could manifest in other ways. “My concern is for everything to run smoothly.” 

“If you’re saying this is you simply micromanaging the behavior of every person in this town, I’d almost believe you.” 

“Nottingham has plenty of cause to suspend Neal.” 

“He has more reason to suspend August Booth. Have you visited him, too?” 

Cora’s tight-lipped silence said enough. Gold took what satisfaction he could. “What might convince you that Neal is not the danger to the community you believe him to be?” 

“Let’s think of it as an act of community service.” Now, piece by piece, the façade of the placid mayor flaked away to show something less pretty and more disturbingly human. Cora stepped closer to Gold and quieted her voice, despite no one being in sight. “I have a relative visiting from out of town. I need you to play the accommodating host.” 

Of all the favors she could’ve clawed out of him, this was quite removed from anything he had in mind. Surely she wanted his help with the election again, or a deal with land developers to develop Storybrooke’s commercial center and spice up her own estate. “Host?” he repeated. 

“Yes.” Mortification leaked into the word. Still, Cora stood tall. “She might benefit from learning more about your shop, if you know what I mean.” 

There was too much missing information to consider before Gold arrived at the conclusion she wanted him to draw. Gradually, cautiously, he approached the unspoken request. “You mean . . . she is . . . she _has_ . . .” 

His heart sped up a little. In all his years in Storybrooke, he could count on one hand how often he’d met anyone like him. No, Madgalene and Lily didn’t count, nor anyone else he currently kept tabs on. He and they shared a similar status, but they were not the _same_. The potential encounter with a relation of Cora’s, of all people, promised something that equally enticed and terrified. 

Cora slowly inhaled. “I know I can depend on your discretion.” Her gaze was a steel blade, demanding compliance. 

Naturally, Gold deemed the academic future of his son his utmost priority, but the addition of this deal and its entailments added even more weight. He minutely shifted on his feet. “How exactly is this person related to you?” 

She sighed though her nose. “I suppose she’ll tell you, anyway. She’s . . . she’s my daughter.” 

Gold squinted. “Not . . . not Regina.” 

“No. A daughter from a previous marriage.” 

His blood frosted over. “You were married before Henry?” 

A flash of sardonic amusement pulled her into a small smile. “Did you assume I was an innocent virgin when we met?” 

Fearing he was close to a precipice, he backed away with a single-shoulder shrug. “No. You just never bothered to mention you had another husband.” 

“We weren’t together in any legal way when I came to Storybrooke.” The force behind her words carried an unshakeable ring of truth. For once, Gold did not want to question it. 

“What brings _her_ here now?” 

“Her father and I weren’t together when she was born. I gave her up for adoption. Somehow she tracked me down. She’s insistent about staying in town until she’s satisfied.” Cora continued to speak low, reining in any tremor that might escape, yet the effort suggested that she was speaking openly about this for the first time. That’s when the suspicion entered his mind. 

To his merit, Gold muffled any note of judgment. “She’s not the result of a previous marriage, is she?” 

Tendons tightened in Cora’s neck. Her eyes widened with surprise, but not outraged shock. The dread pulling at her mouth and age lines betrayed the truth. 

Gold nodded, giving her a small mercy. An old pain did pull at his heartstrings. He shooed it away. Those wounds had long-ago healed. This little development would not reopen them, by God. 

“What is she hoping to be ‘satisfied’ with?” he asked. 

“I couldn’t tell you. At first, I thought she suspected I could do what she can. You know . . .” Cora waved at the building beside them. “I told her I couldn’t, but I could make arrangements for her edification in that area.” 

Gold reaffirmed his grip on the cane. “Does she know about me?” 

“I didn’t tell her anything explicit. I’ll leave it to you how much you wish to reveal.” 

“Thank you for that.” 

“But all this falls under the question of your son’s continued enrollment. I will explain to Nottingham that, for community service, Neal will assist in making my daughter feel welcomed and respected. He’s also on probation. He eats lunch and spends recess in the principal’s office, supervised.” 

“For how long?” 

“The rest of the school year.” 

About two more months. Neal wouldn’t like it, seeing as he was about to complete his father’s disciplinary sentence. Still better than the alternative. 

“Before I agree,” he said, “I want to know two things. One, August Booth’s punishment. Two, the extent of my hosting duties.” 

“I have no qualms about suspending the Booth kid,” Cora remarked, back to her callous calm. “As for Zelena, she’ll have her own place to stay, rent-free. You’ll visit her, give her a tour of the town if need be. She will help you with the shop.” 

“I just hired an assistant,” Gold pointed out. 

“You needn’t pay Zelena. I don’t want her setting down roots. Just make it a pleasant enough experience that she’s not offended, but not so pleasant to give her reason to linger.” 

“And how shall I introduce her to people, should the occasion arise?” 

“She’s been insistent that I acknowledge her as my daughter. I’m willing to do so with the _clear_ understanding that her father and I divorced before her birth and that he gained sole custody of her since, at the time, I had no job prospects. And we _have_ stayed in touch the entire time.” 

Gold smirked. “So, in essence, we should do our utmost to portray you as a loving mother who was forced into unfortunate circumstances.” 

“That’s precisely what happened,” Cora pressed. 

“Right, if we change some of the arbitrary details.” 

“It won’t do you any harm. She’ll be complaisant so long as we do our part. You can’t imagine it, introducing her to people while being reminded of things I’d sworn I left behind.” 

“Yes. Such a pity to have your own child be so inconvenient.” On the last word, he let his lips spread and reveal his teeth, including the gold cap. 

Another strain to her neck gave away how much Cora wanted to defend herself. A younger Cora would’ve gone to the mat in a verbal sparring match. Now, as a wiser political figure, she picked her battles and saved her energy to send heads rolling when it most counted. One specific battle came to Gold’s recollection as Cora gave him Zelena’s contact details on a folded piece of paper. Her purpose concluded, she turned for her car. His words stopped her. 

“I think I know what really has you so on edge.” 

She paused but resisted turning around for a full five seconds. When she caved, she did so like a miller’s wheel being pushed. “What do you mean?”

“Your sudden concern over violence in schools.” He came closer so only she could hear his gruff murmur. “Your threats against my son. Now your unwanted daughter is in town. If she was the only problem, you needn’t have come to me so aggressively.”

Her shrug was convincingly placid. “I’m a busy woman, and I know you don’t dole out free favors.”

He nodded. “How goes it with the Nolans?”

Astonishment washed over her face, a cleanser for the sheen of deceit she’d accumulated. Her defenses came back with a dismissive laugh. “Don’t worry yourself over that. Regina and I are handling them. The little Blanchard may think she has a leg to stand on, but she doesn’t.

“Good to know,” Gold said through a terse smile. 

He kept an eagle-eye on her as she got into her car and drove away. Little did he know (though he could’ve suspected if he spared a moment) that more eyes observed Cora Mills’ departure through the little window of the back-room door.

* * *

Neal and Belle didn’t hear the conversation, but they did pop their heads out the curtain to check that Mr. Gold was stepping outside with a woman. Neal knew they were headed for the parking lot, and he tried to stare out and press his ear to the side door to catch only a word here and there. Belle urged him away. It was her first day; she ought to let a few go by before she bucked up the nerve to eavesdrop on her employer, or let his son do the same. The temptation to at least see the person Neal claimed was Cora Mills was still potent enough for her to share the door window with the boy. They watched Gold and the mayor standing close together, then Cora heading for her car. 

“She does this all the time,” Neal groused. 

“You said she’s the mayor,” Belle said, looking for confirmation that she’d heard Neal correctly when he first identified the visiting woman. “Is she trying to secure his vote for an upcoming election?” 

“Either she thinks my dad has serious clout in voting trends, or she’s interested in him for other reasons.” 

Belle tilted her head with intrigue. Oh, what was she thinking? Just last week, she’d wondered if Mr. Gold had a romantic interest in Ms. Vincent; now she speculated over whether the mayor had pulled him out of his shop for a flirty tête-à-tête. Belle had let her love of witty romances get the best of her common sense. 

“Maybe she has a thing for him,” she offered, anyway.

“Oh, I hope not.” Neal paused. His grimace deepened. “I hope he’s not interested in her.”

“Why?”

“’Cuz she’s creepy! I feel like she’s always up to something.”

Belle nearly chided Neal for not giving someone he didn’t know the benefit of the doubt. Then she remembered how she’d felt about Gaston Legume, whom her father had _insisted_ was a good match for her when she’d known otherwise.

“What makes you think that way?” she asked.

“She was at the school earlier this week.” Neal was reliving the moment, going by the painful dread on his face. “She was talking to Principal Nottingham.”

“Does she have a kid at your school?”

“No. That’s just my point! Why was she there? It’s weird!”

There could be something to that. Since Belle hadn’t met Cora herself, she wasn’t prepared to pass judgment. Something her mother often told her came to mind. “It does sound weird, but you can’t know what’s in someone’s heart until you truly know them. Maybe the mayor just wants to be involved with the education system.”

Neal huffed. “I dunno. The timing is odd, so soon after the fight.”

Now that could’ve been paranoia talking. Belle deferred from saying as much since it probably wouldn’t help Neal’s current state of mind. They should let things play out. But maybe, in the interest of getting to know the town, she would make Cora’s acquaintance and pick up some insights.

“If I can,” Belle said, “I’ll investigate the matter.”

Neal looked at her with more awe than she felt deserving of. “Really?”

“I can’t promise anything, all right? Would be a good idea to get to know the mayor, though.”

“Right.” A sly smirk appeared, an uncanny mimic of his father’s half-smile. “Unless she puts you under some spell.”

Belle rolled her eyes, then returned Neal’s smirk. “I’ve got some anti-enchantment charms at my disposal.”

An idea seemed to spark in the boy. He peered around the room, a hodgepodge of merchandise, laboratory-type equipment, and packages filled with items that still needed cataloging. He crept like a tomb raider through the clutter and searched a row of shelves. After a minute, he turned around, satisfied with his find—a bag of seeds Belle couldn’t identify. They reminded her of mulch, except smaller, golden yellow particulates. They could’ve been broken-up bits of straw.

“It’s ague root,” Neal said. “Dad says it’s loaded with good luck.” He was about to hand it to her when some sudden thought prompted him to withdraw. Only for a moment—he extended the packet again, but with a condition. “Just promise not to tell my dad what I told you about Cora. Or that we tried to listen in.”

“I won’t say anything, but honesty is an important part of a close relationship. If you have concerns about the mayor, you should talk to your father about them.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe he already knows. Just say you won’t talk to him about this.”

“All right. I won’t.”

A strange little knot formed in Belle’s stomach. Generally, she was against deception or secrets, not only between family members. Yet it seemed important to Neal that she let him talk to Mr. Gold in his own terms. So, despite the discomfort, she accepted the bag. A little swell of released tension helped ease her worry. She held up the pouch of ague root pulp and sniffed. A slightly pungent, musky odor.

“You should keep that out of sight,” Neal said. “Dad prefers no one nicks his products before they’re bought.”

Some guilt returning, Belle checked the box from which Neal swiped the ague root. Ah, there were at least a dozen more pouches. Well, if Mr. Gold made a fuss about one missing bag, she’d return it.

“Is this supposed to help me learn more about Mayor Mills?” she asked.

“If Dad’s herbal knowledge is anything to go by.” Neal looked too delighted by the idea to doubt his father’s credibility.

Belle chuckled and tucked the pouch into her handbag. It was a strange little world, this shop. Smelling and even feeling the presence of so many herbs, down to the ground-up contents in bowls and jars on the work table, ready for some alchemist experiment, nearly had her believing in the supernatural powers these plants were credited with. Did Neal really subscribe to herbalism, or was he teasing her? As long as it wasn’t used for some grave purpose, she let herself play along with superstition.

The back door clicked and creaked open. Belle and Neal jumped around to face Mr. Gold as he entered. The man’s dark, quick eyes searched them.

“Hey, Dad,” Neal declared. “I didn’t realize you’d stepped out.”

Belle made herself smile in the wake of his lie. “We were starting to look through the deliveries. Do you want us to finish unpacking them?”

After a quiet moment of taking stock of the scene, Gold waved his hand at a couple boxes pressed up against the shelves. “Just those two. They should have raw wool and soaps. Leave the wool on my table. The soap can go on this shelf here.”

“Do you usually prefer unpacking deliveries yourself?” she asked. 

Gold shrugged, then walked past her toward the curtained doorway, only to pause. “Once you get to know the place, I may be able to depend on you with the finer details.”

“I’d like that. It’d be more interesting than sweeping and dusting.”

“Don’t hope for much adventure and intrigue in this place.”

The warning in the dry-witted words had Belle raising her eyebrows. While she held Mr. Gold’s stony gaze, her mind jumped to the pouch of ague hidden in her bag, nestled on a chair next to the curtain. He was one step away from it.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Gold.” Belle let the archness carry her voice a little higher than normal. “My library job gives me plenty of excitement already.”

The fleeting but satisfyingly perplexed look from her boss gave her reason to smile and turn back to Neal, ready to work on those boxes. Neal, mildly confused himself, followed her and retrieved a pair of scissors to cut open the box of wool, then handed them to Belle so she could slice into the box of soaps. Neither of them noticed Mr. Gold linger, caught between contemplation and enjoyment as he watched his son and new acquaintance (not friend; not quite) work together with ease and efficiency. They didn’t notice the concern settling on his mouth, either, because he returned to the showroom. They didn’t need to know what he was about to face. They didn’t need to know the rising fear, or that they were on the edge of upheaval. Mr. Gold planted himself behind the counter once more, buried his head in his ledger, and pretended that this unexpectedly tranquil scene would last forever.


	8. Whoozits and Whatzits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle finds a moment to bond with Neal and his father a little more. She also meets another Storybrooke resident and learns about some family drama.

Meeting the mayor without a suspicious excuse was much harder than Belle anticipated. So much so that she found her resolve wavering as another week passed without progress. Since Neal’s release from shop duties, he came in only a couple days a week to chat and ask Belle if she had more intel on Cora Mills. Thankfully, his interest waned as other concerns occupied his foremost thoughts.

“Do you ever feel like things go weird with a friend,” Neal asked Belle one afternoon, “and you’re not sure what you did or how to fix it? You don’t even know how to talk about it with your friend because they’re so passive-aggressive.”

“Would this be Lily, by any chance?”

His surprise at her deft question came and went. “I guess she’s the only friend I could be talking about.”

Belle frowned kindly, letting her concern show while trying not to be intrusive. “Maybe it has to do with the fight.”

“I don’t know. I thought we were good on that.” The boy’s eyes shifted as though searching for an answer in the air or on the shelf of candles in the glass case next to him and Belle. “I stopped by the Booths’ place. August is back in school, but it seemed a better idea to talk to him at his house. I apologized about the fight. He seemed okay with it.”

Mr. Gold was right. Most fathers wanted to think they had the best kid in the world, but in his case, it was hard to argue otherwise. Naturally Neal had problems like anyone, but he was owning up to his mistakes. Belle patted his shoulder. “I’m very glad to hear that. So, things are good with you and August, at least. But maybe that’s what’s bothering Lily. Maybe she hasn’t forgiven him for what he said to her.”

“I’m not holding my breath.” Neal sighed and rocked on his heels. “I don’t know whether to let her work it out on her own or make her talk about it. If I push her, she’ll probably blow up at me. If I don’t, she might blow up at somebody else.”

“Does Lily have any other friends?” Belle asked.

“Not really. No one I trust.”

“I see. Not many options.”

If only she had more experience on which to base advice. Belle had enjoyed a small circle of friends back in Perth, but they consisted of older family friends from her early childhood, back when her whole family lived there. She had a couple school mates from uni, too. Belle knew how to be pleasant, friendly, even helpful to strangers or acquaintances, but finding that special connection, that ‘click’ between compatible people, was an elusive phenomenon. Now she was in the States again, living with Dad in a new town, and those scarce friends were thousands of miles and several time zones away. She’s made a couple calls through Skype, but that was it. Maybe Neal needed to consult someone else.

“Lily’s always been a loner,” Neal said. “We get along because we’ve known each other since preschool, and our parents know each other. We’re kind of like siblings more than friends, for better or worse. I thought we’d always have each other’s back, even when we got mad and needed space. But now . . . I’m worried about her. Like there’s some part of her that’s going to snap, and if I can’t figure out how to be there for her to stop it, she might . . . I don’t know.”

Belle took a long breath. “I wish I knew just what to say. I do know what it’s like to care about someone who isn’t good about sharing their feelings, or someone who expects you to know how they feel, like some mind-reader, and act accordingly. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is not to make _them_ talk, but to tell them how _you_ feel and let them know they can share their feelings when they’re ready. But you might need to remind them that relationships are a two-way street. You can’t do all the heavy-lifting.”

“That’s true. But I’ll be lucky to get a word out before she storms off. Or bites my head off.”

“Should that happen, know that I’m here to for moral support. And anti-septic, if it comes to that.”

Just as Belle finished, and just as Neal laughed low with reluctant amusement, Mr. Gold came inside and set off the front door’s bell. A white paper bag was in his grip. He’d expected Belle out front watching the till, ready to greet and help customers, but he regarded Neal like a father startled in the middle of wrapping a gift for his son. “School’s out already?”

“I left right at last period dismissal,” Neal said. “I’ll head out soon. I _am_ allowed to hang out with friends again, right?”

“Yes, son, your punishment is over.”

This had become something of a dry, ongoing joke between them. Even though Neal had paid his dues, adhering to the restrictions Gold had imposed, his father still checked in on what Neal was doing after school. This usually came with a question about his continuing friendship with Lily.

Neal looked inclined to leave before his father delivered a lecture on that topic, but his interest gravitated to the full, slightly greasy bag. “Is that lunch? It’s almost 3.”

“We had a busy day,” Belle explained. “A morning rush, then lots of organizing and restocking. There are still a few errands left to run, yes?”

“Yes, but have your food first.” Gold fully entered the shop and set the bag on the glass counter. Belle winced as she recalled Windex-ing the entire case. She’d need to wipe down that spot a second time. Still, food was worth the price. Gold retrieved her order: a medium-rare burger topped with pickles and ketchup, an iced tea and fries. He shortly pulled out his burger, iced tea and side of coleslaw.

“You’re sure you don’t find this fast-food grease repulsive?” Belle teased as she unwrapped her burger.

“Certainly, but in a guilty pleasure kind of way,” Gold said. His long hair was a little windswept thanks to the breezy day. A few strands caught at the corner of his half-smile. Belle had to rein in an itch to brush it out of his face.

“Enjoy your late lunch,” Neal declared as he pushed open the door. “Thanks, Belle.”

“No problem,” she said right before sinking her teeth into lightly toasted buns and juicy meat. The spices, pickles and ketchup sang on her tongue in savory harmony. Her mouth and stomach were relieved.

“You helped Neal with something?” Gold asked while uncapping his cup of coleslaw. Curious how he started with the side dish first. He even seemed to be eying her fries, despite his previous assertions that he had to mind his health at his age.

“Just some friendship drama,” she mumbled around her food before trying to swallow.

“Just some what?”

A hearty gulp. “Friendship drama. Lily’s giving him the cold shoulder.”

“Hmm. Maybe that’s for the best.”

“Why do you say that?”

Gold sighed, never a good sign. “I don’t hold anything against Lily. Well, maybe that’s not true. I don’t appreciate that her actions spurred Neal into a fight. Lily hasn’t been a bad influence, otherwise, but . . . she’s a troubled girl.”

“Troubled in what way?” It might’ve been naïve and hasty to do so, but Belle wanted to rush to Lily’s defense. Maybe the girl did have issues beyond average adolescent angst. It still felt unfair to hear a grim assessment from someone who had never been a teenage girl. Belle could easily imagine Moe in Gold’s place, judging people who lived through situations he couldn’t understand.

“I know it may not seem like my place to say so,” Gold continued after a bite of coleslaw, “but Lily is the sort of girl who goes through certain . . . growing pains. Magdalene was the same when she and I first met. We weren’t kids like Lily and Neal, but young enough to still feel the aftershocks. Both Magda and Lily are restless people. With restlessness comes upheaval, sometimes by choice, sometimes not. Magdalene learned to adjust. I’m sure, in time, Lily will, too, but until then, no one should be surprised by outbursts or subversive behavior. I simply think Neal’s life would be more stable if Lily wasn’t as intimately involved in it.”

Belle took time to let his remarks marinate, albeit with a furrowed brow and some pensive bites of hamburger. She made sure to swallow the latest tasty chunk before speaking. “It seems like Lily gets a raw deal. If she is troubled, that’s all the more reason to offer her friendship.”

“Friendship, like business, is a two-way street,” Gold said.

A tiny but inescapable shiver tickled Belle. His words were an eerie, warped echo of her own to Neal. “Yes, but friendship is more forgiving than business. Sometimes you need to be willing to yield, or make a special effort, for the sake of the friendship. I’m not saying it’s always worth it. It’s important to have distance from someone who doesn’t treat you well. But we all have troubles, and if we can’t forgive each other for mistakes made in moments of pain or fear, how could real friendships or relationships ever last?”

“They don’t,” Gold said after a quiet moment.

Belle frowned. “They don’t?”

“In my experience, most relationships don’t last.”

“Oh? What about your relationship with your son?”

“That’s different,” he said with an emphatic handwave. “That’s family. Even then—I was referring more to relationships outside the family. People change, drift apart, or have a falling out they can’t come back from. It’s inevitable.”

A harsh question danced on Belle’s tongue. She took a sip of iced tea, washing it away. Mr. Gold might’ve been a cynic, but that was no reason to be snide in return. The alternative was that the longer she let his comment lie unchallenged, the more it exuded truth.

“So, the only thing that lasts is blood?” she asked.

A humorless laugh huffed through his nose. “Not necessarily. Some people aren’t family people. I can attest to that.”

“You’re not referring to yourself, surely.”

“No. I hope not.” He did find his humor, though it might’ve been hiding something he wanted to keep veiled. A twinkle lit up his eye while it held Belle’s stare as he rooted out a plastic fork from the bag.

“I don’t want to get too personal,” Belle said, “but my father and I . . . let’s say we’ve had our share of disagreements.”

“I understand you went halfway around the world against his wishes. If I may be personal.”

Belle narrowed her eyes saucily. Otherwise, she let him off the hook. “It wasn’t quite that dramatic. We have distant family in Australia. I was born there, but I’ve spent most of my life in the States.”

“You still have the accent,” he noted.

“It comes and goes.” That particular ‘goes’ stressed the twanging diphthong of her motherland. “I did feel a little rebellious at the time. That spring-boarded me into following through on what I’d dreamed of doing since I was eight years old. And yeah, my father wasn’t wild about me leaving. It ended up snowballing into other arguments on other topics.” She inhaled to stall and pull herself away from the one topic best left in Pandora’s box. “There were times I didn’t think he and I could make amends. It’s still tough. But I love him. I’m here because of him.”

Gold nodded. “How is he, health-wise?”

“Not as bad as he could be. At least he’s been listening to my advice.” Whether from the food or the conversation, she felt her appetite waning. She powered through the last quarter of her burger and picked at her fries like a bird.

“I wish I could say I’ve been of assistance,” said Gold, “but that’s not the case.”

“Yeah. I get why he’d prefer modern methods, but he seemed weirdly hostile when you visited. Why’s that?”

“I thought we talked about this.”

“Sorry. I just get the feeling he might have a personal grudge.”

“If he does, you might want to ask him about it.”

A good point, but the air temperature dropped a degree. With a resigning frown, she continued decimating her fries, even offering one to Gold in a half-serious gesture of goodwill. Gold gave it a distrustful glare before snatching it between long fingers. He was far too grumpy biting into it. He didn’t _have_ to take it. Such a baby.

“I need you to run to errand,” Gold said, back in business mode once they finished their meals.

Belle checked that her shirt was cleared of crumbs. “Yes?”

“I put in an order for sea salt and shells from one of the local curiosity shops—Whoozits & Whatzits.”

She giggled. “I haven’t seen it.”

“It’s over by the harbor, adjacent to a seafood restaurant, Sebastian’s. Ask for Ariel Walker.”

And thus, Belle had yet another task, only now she could trek outdoors on her bicycle. Gold had suggested using a bike after the first week when Belle began picking up orders or making home deliveries. She had to return her rental car, anyway, and Storybrooke was small enough for someone able-bodied to forego a car but big enough that lots of walking could sap energy. A bike saved her time and the strain of carrying her cargo. While she knew better than to dawdle, she gave herself permission to coast down the odd alley on her way to the harbor. One of these days, she was going to spend time off strictly cycling to explore the town. Maybe with a picnic in the park, too. And maybe she’d remember to wear shorts instead of a skirt, nice as the breeze felt.

She made good time to the marina, a charming scene. In direct sunlight, the water glittered like a blue sequin dress. Fishing boats and sailboats bobbed in a quaintly weathered manner. Sebastian’s came first, a tucked away seafood bar and restaurant with a red crab on its crest and buoys all along the roof’s edge. Like an afterthought, a little blue and white building attached to Sebastian’s appeared. It sported a sign that looked like pieces of driftwood glued together. The painted sign WHOOZITS & WHATZITS were smooth and legible and bordered by various seashells.

Instead of a bell, a windchime make of forks jangled as Belle pushed open the door. She pitied the person tall enough for those forks to pose a hazard.  Her attention was quickly snagged by the arrangement of wares. The front end of the shop was devoted to Maine merchandise in all their cheesy glory. Some postcards, pens and T-shirts even specifically advertised Storybrooke. Deeper in, the items became just seashore novelties like necklaces, candles, snow globes (more like seaweed globes), and loose shells, rocks, and sea glass for interested collectors. One shelf was labeled “Thing-A-Ma-Bobs” for objects that might once have been ocean garbage that washed up on shore, but had since been cleaned, polished and repurposed. They were almost art pieces to the eccentric eye.

“Oh!” squeaked a woman’s voice.

Belle straightened with the slightest jump and blinked away her shock. Maybe more surprising than the greeting was seeing a redheaded young woman her age, possibly younger, in a sun-bleached dress and a necklace of shells. Whether she was an employee or a customer, the young lady boldly showed her kindship with the store. “Sorry for startling you,” she said. “Welcome!”

“Thank you,” Belle said through a shaky laugh. “Is, uh, is Ms. Walker here?”

The young woman smiled and waved. “Present.”

Belle raised her brows unwittingly and pulled them down intentionally to avoid rudeness. “Ariel Walker?”

“Yup!”

“Well, then. Very nice to meet you. I’m Belle. Belle French.”

Her offered hand was met by a fierce grip. “Nice to meet you! You’re the new girl! Well, that’s the scuttlebutt in this part of town. The new librarian, right?”

“That’s right. I’m afraid I haven’t heard much about you.”

“Don’t worry. When new people move in, which seems rarer by the year, there’s always chitter chatter. So, what are you interested in?”

“I’m actually picking up an order for Mr. Gold.”

“Oh! Oh, right, I should’ve remembered. He mentioned he’d be sending someone. I assumed it was Neal.”

Belle smiled fondly. “Not for now. I’m working at the herbal shop part-time.”

“And the library?”

“That’s right.”

Ariel had a gift for widening her eyes in a way that was both cute and strange. “Wow! You really like to work, huh?”

“I like having things to do,” Belle said with a humble shrug. “And being helpful while I’m at it.”

“Well, you’re a big help to me, that’s for sure! I like doing business with Mr. Gold, but I always feel weird bringing stuff to his shop.”

“Oh?” Belle let her intrigue show. “Why’s that?”

Ariel looked like a child caught saying something about a grownup that was not for grownup ears. “Well, uh, it’s not that he doesn’t have a nice shop. It’s just . . . you ever get vibes about a place? Like, the energy coming from it?”

Belle preferred to think her instincts relied more on what she saw, not a cosmic sixth sense, but she wanted Ariel to continue her thought. “I guess so.”

“I wouldn’t say that Gold’s shop has bad vibes. More like, it’s a place where a lot of secrets are kept, and it’s best not to get in its way if you can help it. Do you like working there?”

“So far, yeah.”

“Oh good! That means you’re just what that shop needs.”

She said it so confidently, so guilelessly, that Belle half-believed her. An unexpected blush touched her cheeks. “That’s an interesting thought.”

Ariel’s eyes might’ve twinkled, or it might’ve just been the copious light from all the windows of her store. Unlike the herbal shop, Whoozits & Whatzits had an open, breezy ambiance, like a beach house, even with so many busy-looking shelves. You felt free to hunt for a personal treasure, whereas in Gold’s shop you wanted to complete your business in a timely manner to get back out in the sun. But Belle rather liked the dim, polished, ochre-toned interior, even if it could benefit from a little more lighting.

“Hang on, let me get you that order,” Ariel said before disappearing behind a shell-stringed curtain. Some clumsy shuffling preceded her return with a cardboard box and a plastic storage container. The cardboard box was labeled ‘Sea Salt’ under the shop’s name. The plastic container needed no label; the shells filling it to the brim did the job. Just as Ariel pushed through the curtain, she took a false step and stumbled forward. Belle jumped over to help her catch her balance.

“Sorry,” Ariel said. “I’ve always had two right feet.”

Belle couldn’t help a laugh. “I’ve not heard it put that way before.”

“Oh, right. It’s two left feet, isn’t it? I get that mixed up for some reason. But two of either foot is pretty hopeless no matter what.”

With an amused nod, Belle set down the boxes. She wasn’t ready to go just yet. “Where’s a good place to meet people in town, if I may ask?”

“You may! Probably Granny’s,” Ariel said. “That’s where I met Mary Margaret when she moved into town.”

“Mary Margaret?”

“Yeah, but she actually lived here a long time ago. I didn’t know her well back then, so it basically was like meeting her when she and her family came back.”

Once more, Belle was caught like a fish on a hook. She didn’t want to gossip, of course. Just get a sense of the town’s history. “What brought her back to Storybrooke?”

“Oh, well . . .” Ariel checked that no one was about to walk in. “There’s this messy history between her and Regina Mills.”

Belle squinted in recollection. “Regina—the mayor’s daughter?”

“Right! Actually, I think the whole Mills family has some beef with Mary’s family. Not sure the reason. Did you know that Regina is Mary Margaret’s stepmother?”

“What? No!”

“Yeah, and Regina’s definitely not old enough to actually be her mom. See, M.’s mom died young, and old Mr. Blanchard—nice guy according to everyone—was so broken up over losing her. I think Mary Margaret was just a kid at the time. Maybe he remarried so M. would have a mother figure in her life. So, somehow, it happened that he dated Regina for a short while, then married her. Ten years down the line, he passed away, too. So, it was just Regina and M. and, I don’t know what exactly happened, but there was a major falling out. So bad that M. left before finishing high school!”

Boy, Belle thought she’d had her share of family drama. Maybe Mary Margaret hadn’t left the country, at least. Now they both had returned to deal with their families. Maybe she was someone Belle should make a special effort to know better. And Mary Margaret had a connection to Regina and Cora.

“What is she doing now?” Belle asked.

“She’s a teacher at the elementary school. Her husband, David, just got a job at the sheriff’s office, and he helps at the animal shelter. And they have the prettiest daughter! She’s in high school.”

 _Maybe someone Neal knows_ , Belle wondered.

“I hope she and Regina are making amends,” she said, and she meant it. While her imagination could easily spin this story into a scandalous soap opera, reality was better off with reconciliation.

“I doubt it,” Ariel said with a dryness Belle didn’t anticipate. “Regina’s a piece of work. I get that she hasn’t had an easy life with that mother of hers.” Eyes widened again as she checked the front door. “Whew, sorry. You never know when Cora’s gonna pop up.”

“If she’s that terrifying, why was she elected as mayor?”

“It’s _because_ she’s so scary that she’s held the office as long as she has. She doesn’t even need to be mayor to screw with people. She married into the Reyes family, and they’ve had deep roots in this town for decades.”

Strange—Cora had married into the Reyes family, yet her last name was Mills. “Why does she go by ‘Mills’?”

“She had it hyphenated as Reyes-Mills before Xavier Reyes died—her father-in-law. In his will, a ton of his assets went to his youngest son Henry, Cora’s husband. After that, Cora ditched the Reyes name. She even insisted that Regina take her last name. Henry Reyes is a sweet guy, but he’s kind of a wuss.”

Some blinking and head-shaking helped Belle grasp all she was learning. Family politics, town politics—maybe she should keep her nose out of it.

“Long story short,” Ariel finished, “Regina’s been trained to be like her mom, and that could be what led to things going bad between her and Mary Margaret. I don’t know anything beyond that.”

A screech from what had to be a recorded seagull call jumped out of Ariel’s sundress. Ariel went for a hidden pocket and took out her cell phone. “Oh, no! It’s already a quarter to 4! You better get going!”

Belle gasped. Right, Gold was still waiting. She gathered the two boxes, thanked Ariel, and headed out while minding her steps. She didn’t want to chance a dive like Ariel almost had. She waited until the boxes were secured to the basket in front of the bicycle’s handle bars before mulling over how much of Ariel’s accounts were true, and whether it was in any way a good idea to get to know Mary Margaret Blanchard.


End file.
